


First class, fancy free

by Houseofmalfoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Character, Bisexual Hermione Granger, F/F, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, sugar mummy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2019-10-10 09:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseofmalfoy/pseuds/Houseofmalfoy
Summary: Cissamione sugar mummy AU. Set roughly six years after the war in Paris. Will later mention Rodolphus Lestrange and Delphi Lestrange Riddle, but the main focus is on Hermione and Narcissa. I make no promises on when updates will happen!





	1. Chapter 1

There was a hotel worker waiting for him at the apparation point, they both knew, but that didn’t stop him from leaning in to cup her face and kiss her one last time. She chuckled ever so delicately and let him, answering the kiss before gracefully taking a step backwards. 

He stepped back, bit his lip, and grinned at her. “It was a pleasure, Lady Black, I’ll contact you if I’m ever in the city again.”

“I’ll hold you onto that promise, Joshua.” Narcissa Black answered him, turning around as soon as he’d apparated away. He had been a truly lovely boy, she mused to herself as she walked to the bar of the hotel and ordered a cocktail. 

She had been in Paris for nearly six years now, having left as soon as her and Lucius’ trials had been finished. Draco had been buried after the battle and Lucius next to him only two and a half years later: suicide in azkaban. Narcissa had never returned to England again.

There was a mansion belonging to the Malfoys near the coast of France where she had stayed for a year after the battle. From there on she had discovered the large wizarding community in the heart of Paris — a community that had not been involved in the war and therefore was free for her to make a new impression. 

It had been four years since she had acquired this new lifestyle: Narcissa had come across the interest in it through acquaintances and the first time she had seen one of them with a witch so much younger than themselves she had been shocked. 

Now here she was. At times it disgusted her how far she had fallen from what she once was supposed to be, but that was only rare these days. Narcissa would meet a witch or wizard, usually in their twenties, and make arrangements. In return for pleasant company, a good conversation, and a good looking companion on her arm she gave them anything their heart could desire for as long as it lasted. She always made sure that was never longer than a few months — careful not to get attached.

Narcissa’s thoughts were rudely interrupted. “What are  _ you  _ doing here?” Came from behind her, filled with accusation. Instinctively her hand rested around the wand in her sleeve as she slowly turned to face the voice in question. 

That was certainly not a witch she had expected here. She raised an eyebrow and took her time to take another sip of her cocktail and look the girl over. “I could certainly ask you the same, miss Granger.”

 

oOo

 

She had thought she would be safe here. Away from England, away from her cocon of pureblood elite, away from everything she had once known and loved: away from her past. How had she been found here? Had people been looking for her, had something happened?

Narcissa narrowed her eyes at the young witch when she didn’t immediately respond. “Miss Granger? What are you doing here, and why did you find me?”

“I-- I didn’t find you. I mean, obviously I did but.. not on purpose. I wasn’t trying to find you or anything, I just ran into you. I’m on holiday, needed a break from everything at home… What are you here for? Who was that guy?”

Perhaps she preferred it when miss Granger was silent. Narcissa resisted the urge to sigh at the rambling of words, it was times like this she missed her elite. “Much like yourself, I needed a break from everything in England.”

She eyed the witch in front of her with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, if she had to ask who Joshua was she couldn’t have realized who most of the guests of the hotel were. “You do not know who this hotel mostly hosts, do you miss Granger?”

While it would be wrong to say it was all the hotel functioned as, it would be a correct estimate that a quarter of the guests here had their rooms paid for by others. It came with the price range, she suspected.

Hermione shook her head slowly and Narcissa nodded. “Follow me.” She commanded, first ordering two more cocktails before leading the brunette towards two seats in the lobby. “Sit.”

She then waited until a waiter had brought two cocktails and looked at the witch again. “The man you saw, Joshua, was here on holiday. He stayed for three weeks, looked for an arrangement here and found it with me.”

“An… arrangement?” Narcissa could see something beginning to dawn in Hermione’s eyes. 

“Yes, miss granger, please do not make it a habit to repeat me. An arrangement. In return for his company, I pay for his stay in the hotel, his meals, his gifts.” She delicately raised her cocktail glass towards Hermione and took a sip.

The brunette witch widened her eyes a little. “His company. You mean he’s an expensive whore?”

Immediately Narcissa’s light-blue eyes hardened. “No. I do not, nor would ever lower myself to, pay someone to sleep with me, miss Granger. I reward him mostly in the form of stay and gifts, and only for his presence and conversation.”

Hermione looked down at her glass and Narcissa was pleased to see she blushed. She took a sip of her own cocktail and looked at the blonde witch, the surprise still clear in her eyes. 

“I take it that is not what you approached me for, miss Granger?”

Narcissa knew very well that was the last thing that had been on Hermione’s mind when she approached her, but it was too easy to play a little with the obviously slightly uncomfortable witch in front of her. A pleasant way to stop herself from wondering about England as well. Those were not memories she wanted to revisit.

“I- no. Not at all, ms. Black… You mean you do this, whatever you call it, with girls too?” Hermione stammered, her cheeks instantly turning a shade of red. 

“Certainly, miss Granger.”

Narcissa was careful not to show her slight embarrassment at the direct question, that was something else she had grown a lot more comfortable with after her leave from England: her previously so carefully hidden away attraction to witches.

At least she was not the only one to be suffering from a rather awkward silence, she noticed pleased. Hermione refused to look at her. “I doubt that was what you had expected then, miss Granger? For both that question and my reasoning for being here.”

“I don’t think anyone would’ve expected this, ms. Black.” She chuckled nervously and Narcissa nodded at the cocktail, the girl took a sip. “There are many theories as to where you are, one more outrageous than the other. I don’t think being a sugar mummy is on anyone’s list.”

“That’s an awful sounding term.”

“Then why do you do this?”

“That is a personal reasoning, do not ask.”

Narcissa gestured for a waiter and ordered a glass of water, giving Hermione a questioning look to ask if she needed anything else. The younger witch shook her head, she noticed she’d been staring at her while she was talking to the waiter with a curious look. “Then why do they do it, can I ask that?”

“The chance to roam Paris, free of charge in the most expensive restaurants and being gifted anything to their heart’s desire, on the arm of a gorgeous witch? Not to mention, not many wish to turn down some financial aid. Life is expensive.” Narcissa drawled, smirking when she saw Hermione’s eyes looking her up and down. 

When Hermione looked up at her again she made sure to meet her eyes and her smirk widened when the girl blushed. “I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry.”

“You did not believe me when I said ‘gorgeous’ then? Changed your mind?”

It was too easy and too much of an amusing way to pass the time. Gryffindors never changed did they? Narcissa could still remember just how easily flustered the ones in her own Hogwarts years had been. They were far too much driven by their emotions.

“Don’t bother, miss Granger. It is quite alright.”

She got up from her seat and put down some galleons for the drinks. “I assume you are staying here? Perhaps I will see you again tomorrow morning.”

With that Narcissa gracefully walked out of the lobby, leaving a very confused Hermione Granger at their table.

 

oOo

 

Hermione couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Running into Narcissa Black hadn’t been on her to do list in the first place, but this was also not at all the woman she’d expected her to be. 

Losing your family and moving out of the country changed a person, she assumed. Still, from what she remembered of Narcissa Malfoy during and right after the war, this wasn’t the same woman. 

There was still the haughty, arrogant, air around her, so much she hadn’t changed, she still talked in a way that made whoever was on the other end of the conversation feel as if they knew nothing at all. But Hermione had never imagined someone like Lucius Malfoy’s widow to be having any kind of civil conversation with her in the first place.

Hermione finished her cocktail slowly, taking her time to look around the lobby at the other witches and wizards. She noticed now indeed that there were more ‘couples’ — were they actual couples? She’d forgotten to ask — that had a considerable age gap between them.

Her mind went back to Narcissa Black. 

Now that the woman was gone there were many things Hermione wanted to ask her. Most of all, was whatever ms. Black was doing these days the only purpose of this hotel. She suddenly felt very awkward in the hotel lobby.

Then also, she had seemed genuinely worried when she’d thought she’d been found by an english witch. How had she been avoiding any witch or wizard from England until now? Surely there were more Brits in Paris than just the two of them.

What puzzled Hermione was why ms. Black would be so concerned about being found. As far as she knew the ministry had no interest looking for her, despite her past she was no longer a wanted criminal. The press only reported on her once a year, on the anniversary of the battle of hogwarts.

They all had memories in England, she assumed, and ms. Black had lost most her family there. It likely was nothing more than just to avoid her past.

 

oOo

 

At breakfast the next morning Hermione scanned the room to find no tables available, it was obvious she hadn’t been the only one with the bright idea to have breakfast as early as possible. 

She hadn’t even had the time yet to think about whether she’d have breakfast somewhere else or wait for a table when her eyes met Narcissa Black’s, she was seated at a table for two on her own and Hermione hesitated for a moment.

Ms. Black made a small gesture to the seat opposite of her and turned back to her french toast. It wasn’t like she had anything to lose, was it? Hermione figured and made her way through the dining hall to sit with the other witch.

“Thank you. I had no idea it’d be so crowded already, so early in the morning.” She said with an apologetic smile, somehow feeling like she was interrupting Narcissa despite being invited over. 

A delicate wave of Narcissa’s hand dismissed the apology. “Usually it is not, but today there is a group leaving to Belle-Île-en-Mer for the weekend. The tourists tend to leave quite early.”

They ate in silence, Hermione’s eyes glancing up at the older witch every now and then. One time she glanced up to find herself meeting ms Black’s eyes, who raised an eyebrow at her with an amused smile. 

“What are your plans for today, if I may ask?”

Hermione looked up at the unexpected question, shrugging once. “The Louvre, maybe. Then find out what else I must see while I’m here.”

“Which will be for how long?”

“I think I’ll stay here for two weeks.”

Ms. Black nodded and gestured for a waiter to refill her jus d’orange. “The Louvre is not a place to go unprepared. You will waste your money and not see anything you actually want to.”

Again she spoke in a way that made Hermione feel utterly clueless. She hadn’t thought about that. “Then what do you suggest?”

“With risk of sounding like any inexpensive tourist guide, get the eiffel tower done today. You are up early and can apparate there straight away; it will not yet be crowded with other tourists nor will it bother you for the rest of your trip.”

Hermione frowned a little but shrugged. She didn’t have any other plans set up for today, might as well do what ms Black suggested. “Bother me? What do you mean?” She asked anyway.

“The curse of tourism. The popular sights such as the eiffel tower, the notre dame, arc de triomphe, they always disappoint. Yet you will always feel obligated to visit them the first time you are in the city.”

She was a little taken aback by that. How could something as beautiful as the famous Eiffel Tower or the Notre Dame possibly be a disappointment? She didn’t feel like arguing her point now however and just nodded. “I guess so.”

Ms. Black continued with her breakfast and Hermione studied her curiously. She had changed drastically — that much was obvious — but it was interesting to see from the way she carried herself to simply her mannerisms when eating she was still the well born heiress she’d always been. Their eyes met when ms. Black looked up and she froze momentarily.

Her eyes were a vivid shade of blue, she noticed before looking down quickly. They were quite beautiful. 

“What are your plans then? You’re up quite early as well.” Hermione asked.

“Nothing in particular.”

She didn't know what made her say what she did next but the surprise in those blue eyes made up for her own impulsiveness immediately.

“Would you join me to the Eiffel tower?”

 

oOo

 

They left soon after breakfast. Narcissa apparated the pair of them to a narrow alleyway close to the eiffel tower and — after having checked for any muggles around them — drew her wand with practiced elegance. 

Even years after having left her high class society; after falling from grace so deeply; hidden away in a muggle alley with a muggleborn girl; she had never forsaken the lessons she’d been taught. Any movement she made was always made with her old lessons in mind.

Wordlessly she transfigured her robes. Her new attire — hand crafted by the finest tailors in magical France — was just as much a witches’ robe as what she’d been wearing, but could easily be mistaken for a particularly wealthy muggle woman’s coat. The unmistakable awe in miss Granger’s eyes was all the validation she required for it.

“Do not be mistaken, it is still a magical robe.”

The smile gracing her lips when she looked at miss Granger was — although genuine — just as carefully crafted as the rest of her movements: a sense of control over herself that even with this woman in muggle Paris she didn’t dare leave behind. “Are you ready for the Eiffel Tower, miss Granger?”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else, ms. Black. And yes, definitely.”

Miss Granger’s smile was full of excitement. By the time Narcissa had put her wand away again the younger witch was already walking out of the alley. 

She didn’t know why she’d been asked to accompany her to the tower, but as much as she’d warned her for the disappointment she also never did miss an opportunity to see it. Narcissa didn’t fool herself into believing it lived up to it’s grande reputation among tourists, but a pretty sight it was without a doubt. 

Miss Granger was waiting for her near the mainstreet, when she’d caught up with her Narcissa shook her head with a teasing sound of disapproval. “Here I thought I had been forgotten already.”

“Sorry,” the girl said with a sheepish smile, “but look at it!”

They weren’t close enough to get a good look at it yet but that didn’t seem to bother miss Granger at all. Narcissa gently took the younger witch by her upper arm and guided her through the streets until they were standing on top of the balcony like setting in front of the tower.  “Now look at it.” She told her and pretended not to notice the eye roll she got in response.

She looked at the Eiffel Tower herself and after a few moments smiled in a relaxed manner. Regardless of her belief that the beauty of it was often exaggerated there was still something about it — Narcissa had never been quite able to put her finger on it — that made her feel at peace in a way she didn’t often experience.

A reaffirmation of sorts that she was no longer in Britain but here — where she belonged — in the heart of Paris, away from everything she had so desperately needed to be away from.

Movement next to her pulled her away from her musings and she looked at miss Granger with another practiced, polite smile. “It is far too misty to have a proper view at this moment. I suggest you come back later today if you wish to go to the top.”

 

oOo

 

“So, Miss Granger, what is the true reason you are taking a sudden holiday — on the ministry's expense, nonetheless?” Narcissa asked over a glass of wine the next day, her eyes betraying a genuine interest to the answer of her question.

They had spent the entire last day together, after their brief visit to the Eiffel Tower Narcissa had shown her around the shopping district in Paris and then taken her out to lunch. She hadn’t bought anything herself, but she’d been just as content window shopping. 

Today had been no different: Narcissa had taken her to see the notre dame and then they’d walked through the Luxembourg Gardens. It seemed to her that without actually agreeing on it, they’d become travel partners for the time being.

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably at the question; she'd left in a hurry when Kingsley told her, hadn't even wanted to face her friends. Why should she be talking to Narcissa Black about it?

She didn't know. Even so, she did. “Kingsley thought it would be good for me to take a break. I have a tendency to take on more than I should, people have warned me before.”

Narcissa looked at her with a hint of understanding.

They were sitting on the sofa in Narcissa's hotel room that she refused to admit was larger than her apartment at home. Hermione's leg pressed softly against Narcissa's, despite the sofa being large enough to easily let them sit apart.

Something about this woman, perhaps the most unsettling thing there was about her, made her so comfortable; made her want to talk about it when she'd refused to with anyone else. It both frightened and relieved her.

Hermione began to talk.

“Since the war I've kept moving jobs, I can't find anything that's- that's enough. I try to keep busy, to distract myself from the war, so next to any job I have I start a million side projects.”

She wasn't making much sense, hearing herself talking told her that much. Narcissa didn't seem to mind as she listened intently, a tender hand Hermione hadn't noticed moving now rested on top of her own. She smiled at the gesture.

“It's like I can't handle the idea of doing the same thing for too long. I want to keep busy, but then there are days where it feels like a chore to even get out of bed and I end up falling behind at everything.

I want to do it all at once, so when I don't do anything for a day I feel awful about it. Kingsley put a stop to it, he arranged the hotel for me. Told me to take it easy for a while, until I feel ready to get back to work or make another decision, the ministry pays for my basic needs. As if I'm on sick leave.”

Narcissa's fingers tightened around her hand for a moment and when she looked up at her there was a kind smile on her lips. Any awkwardness Hermione might have felt about opening up to her so quickly melted away the moment she saw that.

“It's not such an odd response to trauma, really. Though I'm rather impressed you managed it for so many years.” She talked softly, genuine respect sounding through her voice that made Hermione both flustered and a little proud of herself. “Kingsley made a good call, still.” Narcissa added.

“Yeah, he did…” she admitted with a shy shrug. “So… this,” Hermione gestured to the room around her, “is your own response to trauma, then?”

It was a bold question, she knew that all too well, and part of her hadn't really anticipated an actual answer. She didn't get one either: Narcissa's expression darkened as if warning her she'd crossed a line there. 

Nevertheless her answer surprised her. “Perhaps we'll continue this later.”

 

oOo

 

The next morning Narcissa took her out for brunch. To Hermione's surprise, she was the one to revisit last night's discussion.

“A while ago I met a witch in a rather similar situation as you.” She started, successfully capturing Hermione’s attention. “She had recently lost her mother, you see. Since then nothing was enough to distract her from it, she didn’t know what to do with herself anymore. She’d lost her job because she failed to stay focused on it for too long.”

Hermione nodded to show she was listening while she was still working on a bite of toast and then looked up at Narcissa. “What happened to her, after that?”

“She stayed with me for a little over two months, figuring out what it was she needed and wanted out of a job for it to work out. Eventually I pulled a few strings from old business ties of Lucius and got her a job at a research facility in Finland, where she lived. It doesn’t pay a lot, but it’s the only job that managed to keep her focus for the past years. Every now and then I’ll spring in to help her afford rent and such.”

That settled it for her. In no way was this witch the same Narcissa Black everyone knew in England. 

“That’s… Incredibly generous of you.” Hermione told her and she was sure Narcissa could hear the surprise in her voice. “Sorry, I just- hadn’t expected that?”

She didn’t say anything in response.

“What are these extra projects you take on when your job is not fulfilling enough?”

Hermione shrugged at the question. Over the years she’d done a lot of different things, most of them having to do with either personal research projects or helping house elves and other creatures; a lot of projects were left unfinished if they weren’t of much importance and she hated to admit that still. “Research, mostly. Advocacy work as well.”

“There are no positions at the ministry to do with advocacy?” Narcissa looked at her as if she didn’t quite believe that, and correctly so. 

Hermione shook her head quickly. “Oh no, there are. I worked at the department of regulation and control of magical creatures for nearly a year, but as much as I loved it it- just like with the other jobs, it wasn’t enough.”

She could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment now and she looked down at her plate, all at once feeling like a child again in front of this witch who must think she was being ridiculous. 

To her surprise, slim fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist in a gesture so gentle that she couldn’t believe it was coming from a witch so well-known for her frigid personality. “Kingsley was correct then, you merely need time to figure out what would be enough. For how long is he paying for your stay here?”

“Two weeks,” Hermione replied after a moment, a little preoccupied with the fact that she was still holding her hand gently. 

Narcissa nodded and let go of her hand. She reached into her clutch and placed — to Hermione’s surprise — a few euro bills on the table. Either she had no idea of the amount of money she was giving the restaurant, or this brunch was far more expensive than it ought to have been.

“When those two weeks are over, do feel free to stay.” 

Hermione was given a meaningful look but before she had had the chance to think about what the meaning of it was, Narcissa spoke again. “Do finish your breakfast, the french toast is remarkable here.”

With that she was left alone and only then it began to dawn on her what the other witch had suggested. To stay in Paris — perhaps much like that other girl she’d mentioned — on Narcissa’s costs.

She tried to banish the thought at once. She couldn’t possibly agree to such a thing, could she? It was ridiculous.

But the seed had been planted.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

She had woken up much later than usual and was oh so grateful for that — for the first time terribly glad she never scheduled anything with Hermione before it was eleven. Most days she either got so little sleep it seemed useless to try at all, or woke up so early she would easily spend six hours reading while she waited. Not an awful way to pass her time but still, she was thankful for the rare good night of sleep.

Getting ready in the morning had been a cherished ritual since she could remember. From the moment she had left Hogwarts and married Lucius she had gotten used to taking great pleasure from spending a full hour showering, dressing, and doing her hair.

With Narcissa's lack of a job and the punctuality she did pride herself on it had been easy to take that time out of her day. 

Over the years there had been times — times she desperately tried to avoid remembering — when the process had served more as a way of convincing herself she was alright than the relaxation it was supposed to be.

After she'd lost her first two babies she'd put twice as much effort into her appearance on the first days she'd managed to get out of bed; when her father had passed away she'd looked stunningly beautiful at his funeral; she'd lost count of the amount of times Rodolphus had jokingly reminded her they were at war during the second war; she'd made widow ship look like perfection.

She convinced herself that if only she looked better — and she already was so beautiful on an ordinary day — and if only she put more effort into looking so good, that somehow would make it feel better too.

She'd always basked in the comments filled with envy she received. 

Narcissa was seated in front of her bedroom mirror, still dressed in her bathrobes as she magically dried her hair. 

With a flick of her wand her hair was put back in a temporary bun and she slowly retrieved a paste from her drawer.

In the mirror her eyes fixated on the thin scar reaching from halfway up the side of her throat to just a little up her chin — something to remember the Dark Lord by. Ugly, in her opinion, but as long as she used the paste she'd created for its curse as harmless as anything. 

As soon as she'd cast her usual glamour her eyes darted to the photograph of Lucius and Draco she always kept on her desk: the two of them on Draco's fourteenth birthday, proud and happy with the newest type of firebolt available on the market. 

Narcissa smiled at it.

The picture no longer brought her to tears as it had for so long after the war. She was now able to look at it and though it still hurt — she didn't expect it to ever stop hurting and frankly didn't think she'd want it to — the memories it brought up were able to make her smile. 

The weeks after the battle, after she'd lost that precious boy, had been the only weeks she hadn't partaken in this ritual. It was a miracle the elves had managed to get her decent enough and to her and Lucius’ trials on time and she hadn't cared at all.

Once she'd arrived in France — and most certainly when she'd left the coast for Paris — Narcissa had made sure to pick it up again. It hadn't failed her.

People had often asked her what made it work so well but she never knew. There was something about the effort she would put into herself and into her appearance that made everything else seem to become a little bit better; a little bit easier.

What could she say? She liked to live up to her name.

She dismissed the voice in the back of her head that suggested dear miss Granger now had something to do with her desire to look good.

The girl meant nothing. She was as clever as Draco had so often complained about — far prettier than he'd suggested she was though — but while Narcissa wouldn't mind at all if she'd take her up on the offer she'd made her that was it.

Nevertheless she smirked as if she'd won when she met Hermione downstairs and the younger witch couldn't look away from her.

 

oOo

 

In her letters to Harry and Ron she had only briefly mentioned having met Narcissa. Both because she hadn't been sure yet if meeting her would be playing a big part in her holiday, and in an attempt to preserve some of Narcissa's privacy.

She'd looked positively frightened when she'd thought people had been looking for her — Hermione would hate it if they started now because of her.

To her surprise she received letters from not only her two best friends but one from Luna Lovegood as well. She was still a close friend, Hermione knew, so it wasn't strange that she'd been told about her letters.

What was strange in her eyes was Luna's request. Where Harry and Ron had both wished her a good time; Ron had warned her not to be too trusting too quick; and Harry had asked her to thank Narcissa in his place, Luna wanted to know something else entirely.

After the war she had worked hard to make the Quibbler a more recognized paper and with help of their friends it had worked out successfully. 

Luna still wrote plenty about creatures and theories only she and her father believed in, but she was also well known for her brilliant interviews with everyone and more. Harry exclusively did interviews with the Quibbler, and Luna had even gone as far as to do them with some of the since released death eaters. Sometimes Hermione feared she was too understanding for her own good.

Not long before she'd been sent on a holiday by the minister himself, Hermione had begun to help her with a new series of interviews and articles. Being queer in the wizarding world.

Harry and Ginny were planning an interview with Luna for it, as well as Lavender and from what she’d heard even Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. 

Now she’d asked Hermione to see if Narcissa Black was willing to do the same.

She wasn’t sure if she was driven more by wanting to help out a friend or by her desire to find out more about Narcissa’s past, but she wrote back promising to ask about it.

They were strolling through the Palais-Royal gardens, both holding a cup of gilly water. Narcissa, as if it came naturally, was again gently guiding her by her upper arm. She didn’t mind at all.

“Luna actually wanted me to ask you something,” Hermione started, not sure how else to bring it up. The name alone seemed to startle Narcissa more than she'd naively expected. 

“How is she doing these days?” She asked carefully and Hermione was sure she saw a hint of guilt behind her perfect blue eyes. She hated to think of how the older witch knew Luna.

She gave her a reassuring smile. “She’s doing great. Over the years she's tried to find ways to contact you, to thank you but to be honest none of us ever understood why. She's worked hard on the Quibbler, it's a fairly well established and respected newspaper now.

That's what she wanted me to ask you about, actually.” 

Narcissa looked like she needed a moment to take it all in and Hermione nodded at a wooden bench near one of the fountains. She got a nod in response; neither of them spoke until they'd sat down.

“That wretched girl really is too forgiving for her own good, sweet Salazar…” Narcissa whispered, her words accompanied by a disapproving shake of her head. “Thank me… for not making her situation worse than I did?”

She didn't say anything else yet. 

“What did you have to ask me, Hermione?” Narcissa asked after a long moment of silence — Hermione was a little glad for the change of subject. 

She shrugged. “Luna and I started working on a new series for the Quibbler, about being LGBT or queer in the wizarding world,” Narcissa's posture tensed only slightly, but she let go of her arm, “she wants to know if you'd be willing to do an interview.”

When she didn't receive an answer Hermione continued, “she does want you to know that she'd completely understand if you don't want to. But I was a little confused, really. How does she know you're into women?”

“As far as I'm aware, she does not,” Narcissa stated dismissively, “in the brief time we knew each other I don't believe I mentioned it; I don’t see why I would.”

She made a mental note to ask her more about those months and Luna some other time, but for now Hermione only frowned. “But then why-”

Narcissa interrupted her. “Considering the topic of your project, I assume Luna wants to ask me about my experiences as a transgender witch. Tell her I will consider it, but that she should not get her hopes up.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, not being able to stop her surprise from showing on her face. She hoped it didn’t come across as too rude. “I had no idea.”

“Obviously.”

“Is that why you’re not named after a star, then?”

She didn’t know why that was her first thought. Coming to think of it, it would make a lot of sense, she thought. A few years back when she and Ron had helped Harry clean out Grimmauld’s place thoroughly she’d taken the time to do some research on the Black family tree and she couldn’t think of any other Black to not have been named after a star or constellation. 

Narcissa nodded, a careful smile on her lips, and leaned back against the bench slowly. “Correct, miss Granger. Perhaps what infuriated my mother most of all; we did always take pride in that tradition.”

She clearly wasn’t putting a lot of effort into the lie if Hermione could so easily see through it. Still, Narcissa didn’t seem like she’d be willing to talk more about that part so she let it rest. “You continued it with Draco, though. Why?” She asked curiously, this time she had no idea what to make of the look in Narcissa’s eyes.

“Regardless of my own role in the death of the family name — I am terribly proud to be a member of the Black family. Draco had the blood of the two most powerful families in Britain flowing through his veins, I wanted that to be acknowledged. Most specially after the name itself had died out.”

Hermione didn’t think she’d ever understand taking such pride in a family name, but with Narcissa being the one explaining it she almost didn’t feel the urge to roll her eyes at it. That same comfort she’d felt talking to her yesterday made her so less happy to dismiss anything she said as rubbish.

“I won't pretend to understand the sentiment…”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to.”

Hermione huffed. She didn’t understand how Narcissa seemed to go from more kind than she’d ever expected of her to being so blatantly rude — maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her, but she didn’t think of that right now. “Of course. How could a stupid muggleborn like myself understand your pure ways?” She bit back.

Narcissa indignantly rolled her eyes. “Was I wrong?”

She refused to answer that. Hermione might not understand the ridiculous pride purebloods took in their family names, but that gave the other witch no right to be so patronising about it. 

“You are a muggleborn and not from a royal family. How could I possibly expect you to understand what it is like to come from a house that has existed long before the founding of Hogwarts?”

“I guess…”

It felt wrong to give into an idea she'd initially felt such repulsion to — for understandable reasons she'd say — but there wasn't much she could think to argue against it. “What was that like then?”

Narcissa shook her head. “If it bothers you so much, perhaps we'll talk later. If at all.”

She couldn't decide whether she should be touched or offended by the sentiment.

Hermione looked around the garden for a few moments while they were both silent; regardless of the slight tension between them they were truly very beautiful. Her mind went back to Luna and how she’d met Narcissa inside Malfoy Manor. Luna herself hadn’t spoken that much about that time and none of them had been stupid enough to push it, but from what she had told them it seemed Narcissa had been the one she saw most — aside from the other prisoners. Regardless of that she barely held any hard feelings against her; Hermione had never understood that.

She frowned.

“How does Luna know, then?”

Narcissa shifted.

“Sorry, but I can't make sense of it. You had no reason to tell her you're into women, that makes sense. But then I don't understand why you would tell her this.”

“That would be because I did not tell her.”

Her voice had softened considerably but this time Hermione refused to let herself feel bad about it. She was more interested than she'd intended in anything Narcissa had to say but there were limits to how far her sympathy could go. Even if Luna held no grudge against her, Hermione couldn't let herself forget who had been the victim there.

Narcissa stayed silent and for a moment she thought she was waiting for a response before she continued. “Death eaters talk. Most specially when they are sloshed and do not like you.”

“They didn't like you?”

A sound that could almost be called a laugh escaped Narcissa's lips. She shook her head.

“It's no secret Lucius and I were far from innocent after the first war, yet we were pardoned. Many of them were not and tell me Hermione, how much kindness would you feel towards the people that lived the most lavish of lifestyles while you were rotting away with dementors when you all committed the very same crimes?

No, they did not like us. But it wasn't until Lucius’ incarceration they made it known just how much they disliked us. Creative lot; both in words and curses. I presume Luna just listened to what they called me.”

While she was still processing the meaning of those words it briefly came to mind how Hermione envied her ability to speak about such horrible events — and what she could only imagine were more awful memories — with such ease. 

She'd never imagined it to have been so pleasant to live with Voldemort and his followers, but it'd never crossed her mind what it'd be like if those followers were on such bad terms with her. 

Though she was dying to know more about that time she didn't feel it was at all appropriate to ask about it more than she'd done already. Narcissa had seemingly mistaken her silence for her own discomfort as she smiled reassuringly at her.

Again those gentle fingers wrapped themselves around her hand and squeezed softly. Hermione wasn't surprised by the comfort it gave anymore.

“But let us not ruin such a marvelous garden with talk of war, dear.” 

 

oOo

 

They found themselves in Narcissa’s hotel room again later that afternoon, sharing glasses from a bottle of Superior Red — the price of which Hermione gladly never found out. 

She looked around the room with a mixture of awe and curiosity. Last time she’d been here she’d paid very little attention to the room itself, admittedly more interested in the witch that inhabited it. 

It wasn’t your typical hotel room, at least not to Hermione’s personal standards of a hotel room. Though it looked similar enough to her own room here, this room existed of multiple chambers which were all larger than the average room. This was no place for a temporary stay — this was more luxurious than any normal sized apartment — but to live in permanently.

“Why do you live here?”

“I told you before, I needed to get away from England.”

“No, I mean...” Hermione sighed. “Why do you choose to live in a hotel? With the amount of money you have you could easily buy a much more luxurious apartment or a townhouse in the city… I’ve heard both the Blacks and Malfoys have several estates in France as well. Why do you live here instead?”

Narcissa didn’t respond at first. That was a pattern, Hermione noted, whenever she would think so carefully about her words it seemed to mean she wasn’t happy to speak about it at all. She’d long discovered she didn’t like making Narcissa uncomfortable like this, but her curiosity got the better of her: while she didn’t approve at all of the idea that anything more expensive and larger was somehow better that was exactly the sort of mindset she expected someone of Narcissa’s standing to have.

“I have always lived in manors. I grew up in a place that would fit any ordinary townhouse times six at the very least and Malfoy Manor was only a fraction smaller.

I never lived alone.”

She didn’t know why it scared her how sad Narcissa’s eyes suddenly became. There was something very unsettling about this witch who seemed to have such perfect control over her emotions — even if that usually meant to make them seem non existent — be so visibly sad.

“But now you do...” Hermione whispered.

She lived alone in her apartment at home and even then there were times where she really felt the need to meet up with people and invite friends over when she’d been alone for a few days; she couldn’t quite imagine what it’d be like to live in a massive townhouse all alone. It made sense Narcissa refused to.

“Now I do. I visit the manor at the coast every now and then, but immense places like that are not suitable to be alone in; it’ll drive anyone mad eventually.”

Part of Hermione wanted to ask her if that was what had gotten her into being a sugar mummy, but she did remember how opposed she’d been to that term and answering the question the last time she’d asked so she kept her mouth shut. 

“That makes sense, yes.” She said instead.

She continued to look around the room, after they’d been silent for a while deciding it was alright to stand up and explore it further. When she made her way over to a beautiful desk on the other side of the room — that she suspected served as a study — Narcissa’s voice stopped her.

“Planning to find more to question me about my past, Hermione?”

She didn’t know what to make of the tone of her voice. With an apologetic smile she turned around to face Narcissa — she didn’t look upset at all. “Sorry, I won’t ask more if it bothers you of course…”

“I would instantly let you know if what you do bothers me, don’t doubt that.”

The smile that graced her lips allowed Hermione to assume that was her way of giving her permission to look through the room and she needed no time to think twice when she turned around again to look at the desk.

Almost immediately her eyes fell on two photographs: one of them only featuring an empty field of grass with Malfoy Manor at the far left of the background of which Hermione half suspected the inhabitants of the picture were away for the time being. She’d never quite understood what was so great about photographs that could just leave like that.

The other photograph featured a man that she felt she should recognize with a girl that couldn’t be older than eight. She had dark brown to black curls with one pure white streak that fell around her face that reminded her of Narcissa’s hair colours. The man was kneeled in a ridiculously large drawing room while the girl tried to keep her balance standing on his knee. 

She’d seen him before, she was sure of it. Whether it was in the papers or for just a moment at the ministry, she’d seen this man before. Hermione just couldn’t think of when that would’ve been. 

That girl… she’d talked about her with friends, she recalled now. Her hair that was apparently naturally coloured if they were to believe Cho and how it surprised them what a bubbly child she was when they’d seen her enter the Leaky Cauldron with Pansy Parkinson and Lady Zabini. Delphini Lestrange, who was being raised by her father — under close watch of aurors. 

That made the man in the picture no one but Rodolphus Lestrange himself.

“You knew Rodolphus Lestrange?”

Stupid question, she immediately realized. Of course Narcissa knew him, he’d been married to her sister for decades. How could she not? 

“Since we were six years old.”

Her voice came from much closer than Hermione had expected — how on earth did she manage to move so quietly in heels like that was beyond her — and she let out a startled gasp.

“My apologies.” Narcissa told her, though her teasing smile made her believe she was only laughing at her. “To this day he is my closest friend.”

“I thought the death eaters that went to azkaban didn't like you.” Hermione's voice was much colder than she'd meant for it to be.

Narcissa pretended not to notice and that only frustrated her more. Wasn't she at least going to acknowledge there was a problem with still being so close to — out of all death eaters there had been — be so fond of Rodolphus Lestrange?

“There were many death eaters who'd been to azkaban. There were a few exceptions, Rodolphus was one of them.”

“He at least had the shred of decency it takes to acknowledge he deserved his sentence?”

It scared her how angry this made her. Hermione had so quickly met and gotten to know Narcissa Black as she was now: a lonely widow that had turned her back on all her life — that she'd nearly let herself forget the woman she used to be.

A widow to a death eater; a mother to a death eater; a sister to a death eater; were there any people she knew that weren't involved with Voldemort's cause one way or another?

She took a step away from her and to her credit Narcissa had the sense not to follow.

“Of course he recognized that.” 

Narcissa's voice was a whisper that she didn't pay enough attention to to understand it's tone. 

“How could you be friends with a man like that?”

They both understood it was more of an accusation than a question and again — she cursed herself for even realizing it — Narcissa took her time thinking about her answer.

“No idea.”

Hermione rolled her eyes even though she wouldn't be able to see, her back still turned to the older witch. “Do you miss him?”

“Dearly.”

“Why?”

In the silence that she'd now known was coming Hermione turned around, trying very hard not to look at the picture again. 

She tried. She did her best to look at Narcissa with the anger she knew she should feel. It wasn't right; not that Rodolphus Lestrange had gotten the chance to raise a daughter and live his life when because of him and his cause many others couldn't; and it wasn't right that Narcissa stood here speaking about him as if he was anything but a monster.

She really tried to despise the witch in front of her when she answered at last.

“Because there is no one alive who has known me as long or as well as he has.”

She failed.

 

oOo

 

She didn't know what Narcissa was reading — it seemed just elitist enough for her that it was in Greek — but it didn't matter much. 

Hermione stared at her so blatantly it almost felt as if she wasn't embarrassed by it. Narcissa was peering over a thin bundle of parchment filled with lines of Greek, her eyes narrowed in concentration while her lips formed every word she read. 

Every now and then she'd look away from the text itself to look up something in a dictionary that lay beside her and scribble something onto the parchment itself.

After their conversation earlier that day they'd spent some time apart. Hermione still couldn't find understanding for being on any sort of friendly terms with Lestrange, but it didn't matter enough.

If she'd done the math right, Narcissa was twenty-five years older than she was. She knew full well that those years came with a past Hermione didn't think she'd ever be able to understand well enough.

She figured there was a reason she held onto that friendship, even sitting here in Paris with no family reading ancient Greek texts while the world — maybe even Rodolphus himself — was oblivious to her whereabouts.

Hermione just hoped the reason was good enough.

Because looking at Narcissa like this, working with so much focus yet so visibly glad to work that it only made her more beautiful… she couldn't look away.

“Intrigued, are we?”

Hermione’s breath was caught in her throat when Narcissa’s eyes left the parchment and met hers instead, immediately she broke their gaze when she couldn’t stop herself from glancing down at the witch’s lips. They’d formed a perfect smirk — perfectly well aware of how stunning she was and what that could do to others.

She refused to let her nerves get to her; refused to give Narcissa the satisfaction of having proof of what she did to her just by looking so beautiful. Hermione took a deep breath and shrugged, looking her up and down slowly before she answered. It may not have the same effect as Narcissa would’ve been able to achieve, but the hint of surprise in her eyes was enough of a give away that she’d done something.

“I’m merely starting to understand why people would spend months in a foreign country just to be with you, that’s all.”

Narcissa's lips formed a smirk that just radiated with confidence as she stood to put away the dictionary she'd been working with. “The offer stands, Hermione.”

“I…” with that her plan not to let her get to her went out the window. She didn't think she'd ever really stood a chance at it. 

She'd tried to think about it. She'd made attempts to picture what it'd be like to stay here instead of returning to her life in England already but she couldn't begin to imagine how it'd go.

At home, what was waiting for her? 

Hermione didn't know what she wanted to do for a living and she was getting tired of constantly switching jobs and taking on too many side projects to compensate for it. She had no idea what to tell Kingsley when he'd inevitably — and understandably — asked if she'd reached a decision.

Narcissa was offering her the chance to live in France for an undecided amount of time — how long did these things usually last? She had no clue. She was offering it for free, asking only a little company in return.

So far keeping her company had been wonderful, save for the few tense moments when the past had been questioned enough. Hermione just wasn't sure if she'd be able to keep it at bay in the future; what would happen if she found out something about Narcissa and her actions during the war that was too much? 

She looked at her again, now standing in front of a beautiful bookcase with an amused yet expectant look in her eyes — if she'd thought she'd truly realized how beautiful they were before she'd been wrong.

She hadn't lied when she said she could understand the other people that had taken up this offer. Here she was herself: genuinely considering staying in Paris with this witch she'd barely ever known. 

“What… what exactly would it entail? To take you up on that offer?”

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“The most important thing I need you to understand is that I do not expect a thing of you. There is… history here. Given that history I believe it’s more important to emphasize that. You are under no obligations whatsoever.”

History. This muggleborn witch that had been tortured on her drawing room floor. By her sister. Getting to know her would include revisiting those and so many other memories that she’d tried so hard to forget, it’d be impossible to avoid the war for long when it had become such an innate part of her being. Narcissa had no doubt the same went for Hermione.

There was an imbalance that she feared would make her uncomfortable: she’d fought two (even if just one voluntarily) wars against muggleborn witches like herself; she had been friends with the very people that had murdered and tortured her friends. 

There were reasons she’d left England behind; she hadn’t expected it to follow her here.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to make the offer in the first place.

She could easily tell Hermione that now. Admit she had been wrong to ask her and leave her alone now. Leave the past where it belonged.

Hermione would return to England and with a bit of luck wouldn’t tell everyone where she lived, she would be free to return to blissfully forgetting the life she’d left behind. It’d be so much easier.

“I understand.” Hermione’s voice brought her back from her thoughts. “Some history it is indeed...”

It’d be much easier to tell her she’d changed her mind. Narcissa didn’t say anything.

“I was wondering… do arrangements like this usually get more… intimate?”

Narcissa's lips formed a smirk; regardless of her desire not to make the other uncomfortable not quite willing to  _ show _ her that care. “Usually.”

She let it hang in the air for a few seconds as she studied Hermione's face. She had half a mind beginning to teach her to mask emotions, the tad of embarrassment she was feeling was painfully obvious.

“Don't worry. By no means is it a requirement nor an expectation. Certainly given the… history, between us.”

The relief Narcissa had expected to see never appeared — she let it slide.

“So… You pay for my stay in the hotel, as well as my meals and trips. You buy me whatever I ask for — to a certain degree — and all you ask in return is… to accompany me while doing so? Nothing else.”

She nodded in response, quite happy with the observation that Hermione was — far too blatantly — staring at her once again. “Do we have a deal, Hermione?”

Narcissa could see the disbelief in the young witch’s eyes, though she wasn’t sure if was directed at the offer or at herself for accepting it, when she nodded slowly.

“Yeah… We have a deal.”

Narcissa gracefully raised her glass of wine and they clunk their glasses together with a smile. “To a wonderful time in Paris.”

 

oOo

 

“So, Hermione. How has life been treating you?”

They'd spent the better part of the morning already strolling through the Louvre — not that they’d gotten even close to seeing everything, but Hermione suspected that if she were to try that they’d spend several consecutive days inside the museum. Though with Narcissa on her arm like this, she couldn’t be sure if she’d mind at all.

While it felt a little odd to think of herself as having a sugar mummy now — she’d never say it to Narcissa like that and she certainly wasn’t planning on telling her friends about it anytime soon — Hermione had to admit it wasn’t nearly as strange as she’d expected it to be like.

Aside from the book on magical art history in her bag, a gift from Narcissa, nothing was much different than it’d been the days before.

Not counting her confusion at her own reaction when she’d been assured there were no expectations at all other than friendly company. The assurance should not have made her feel — even if only slightly — disappointed. What had she expected?

She pushed the thought down as soon as it had appeared. 

Hermione shrugged at the question. She’d always preferred people asking about specific topics, never quite knowing what to answer to such broad questions. Besides, so much had happened in her life and in England on its own since Narcissa had left, she didn’t know where to start.

“Alright, judging from your acceptance of my offer, I am assuming you’re not seeing anyone?” Narcissa asked after a few moments.

She shook her head.

After the war she’d started officially dating Ron, and though it’d been wonderful at first after three years they’d mutually agreed they would be better off as friends. As much as she had loved him at the time, they’d come to realize they wanted far too different things in life to be truly happy together later on. 

He was now engaged to Padma, with a baby already on the way. Hermione truly was happy for them.

“I was with Ronald for a few years, and I briefly saw Cho Chang. That’s it.”

“The Weasley boy? What happened?”

She didn’t appreciate the disapproving look in Narcissa’s eyes.

“We wanted different things. He did nothing wrong, if that’s what you’re implying.” Hermione replied, suddenly defensive. The older witch thankfully looked a little guilty at that. 

“Of course,” Narcissa gave her an apologetic look that she wasn’t sure meant too much when she continued to say, “that means you’re not happy being a stay at home mother to eight children?”

“How do you—   ” Hermione sighed. She had a point. Kids had been the biggest reason they’d decided they wouldn’t work out. He couldn’t wait to have a big family like the one he’d grown up in — she wasn’t sure if she wanted kids at all. “I don’t know. Not eight, at least.”

“Did you have siblings growing up?”

She shook her head. Maybe that was why she couldn’t understand why Ron wanted so many children, Hermione had always very much enjoyed being her parents’ only child. She liked the solitude — while the summers spent at the Burrow had always been fun she couldn’t imagine living in such a full house constantly.

“An only child, I guess it was for the best when I got my letter. One sibling being magical and the other not… might not have gone over so well.” Hermione remembered the bits Harry had told them about his mother and aunt quite clearly. She was glad that had never been the case for her.

She didn’t have to ask if Narcissa had siblings. The other witch herself seemed hesitant to go further as well.

To save her from having to go into her own sisters Hermione changed the topic herself. “I live alone now, I have an apartment in the muggle part of London.” Narcissa pursed her lips. “Don’t give me that look. You’re not the only one in need of a break from the wizarding world every once in a while.”

Disapproval turned into something that looked suspiciously like sympathy.

“Not the press’ darling, then?”   
“I’m sure you know all about that?”   
“Oh, the things they have written about me...”

Narcissa didn’t seem bothered — quite the opposite in fact. Her pursed lips had curled upwards into an amused smile that made Hermione both terribly curious what exactly had been written and unable to look away from her. She had got to stop that from happening, she chastised herself mentally.

“I’m in our world more often than not though. Especially now that my friends are starting to have children.” Even if she wasn’t sure about having them herself, she loved each moment she spent with Teddy, Victoire, James, and Lavender’s and Parvati’s two girls. They all felt like family.

“They are still starting so early with children, then?”

Narcissa seemed genuinely interested as well a little surprised to hear that, and Hermione chuckled. The art of the museum was long forgotten. “Well, Fleur and Bill are older than I am of course. I can’t really say anything to defend Parvati and Lavender, but they’re amazing mothers, it suits them. And...” she hesitated for a moment, then grinned as if she was sharing a terrible secret, “Ginny refuses to admit it but I’m quite sure James wasn’t exactly planned.”

It was common sense, really. She’d never plan to get pregnant in the middle of the quidditch season, Hermione knew her better than that. To her surprise, Narcissa chuckled politely.

“There are worse surprises in the world.”

“That there are.”

Narcissa readjusted her grip on her arm when she lead them towards a bench in the middle of the next room, clearly also having made her peace with the fact they were done with the art itself for today.

They were silent for a while.

“What about Delphini? She’s your niece, and you’re still friends with Rodolphus. Does she know you?”

Hermione didn’t hide her frown when she spoke Rodolphus’ name so well but she suspected that even if she’d tried harder Narcissa would’ve easily spotted her disapproval. She didn’t care, she had every right to be everything but pleased about that friendship.

Narcissa nodded once and then said nothing even if it looked like she was about to. Her arm around Hermione’s waist tightened a little — likely subconsciously — but that was the only hint aside from her silence Hermione got about her feelings.

“I write her for her birthday each year, accompanied by a gift.”

“That’s it?”

Narcissa almost seemed hurt at her surprise. “Sorry. I just— that’s surprising.” If there was anything Hermione knew for certain about the older witch is that she’d never loved anything as much as her family, she would’ve assumed that meant she’d kept closer contact with Delphi — after all her only living relative that wasn’t Andromeda and Teddy — than writing once a year.

“I try to keep my distance.”

“Why?”

She couldn’t understand why any show of sympathy or worry seemed to make Narcissa hesitant to continue; it didn’t make sense to her that knowing people cared could be so bothering. 

Their eyes met for a moment and she could see her thinking. There was so much going on behind her eyes — Merlin they really were beautiful weren’t they? — that Hermione couldn’t possibly follow. Again she failed dramatically at hiding her surprise at the answer she got.

“No reason.”

She didn’t buy it, of course she didn’t. She had half a mind to push a little for a better answer, but for a second there Narcissa seemed so deeply uncomfortable she couldn’t get herself to ask further. Maybe later.

oOo

“There’s something you could get me.”

Hermione could already tell Narcissa didn’t fully appreciate the mischievous spark in her eyes, but she didn’t care. She’d said anything after all, anything to her heart’s desire. By lack of experience in actual luxury, this would do for now.

“Arthur once took me to a muggle coffee shop— ”

“You believe telling me it is a recommendation of Arthur Weasley is in any way going to make me happier to go?”

“Don’t interrupt me.”

Narcissa pursed her lips.

“It's becoming more popular in the muggle parts of England, but I just found out they've very recently opened their first shop in Paris. Muggles love it.” The more she explained the less enthusiastic Narcissa looked. “You promised to buy me anything I wanted. Well, there you go.”

Hermione laughed — a little childishly so but she didn't care — at the look of defeat Narcissa wore now. 

“You're buying me Starbucks.”

 

oOo

 

“Hermione it is pink. Pink. You can not possibly describe it as coffee if it is pink.”

“Shut up and drink your strawberry frappucino, you look incredible.”

“I always do, this monstrosity of a drink does not change it.”

Hermione laughed. Truth to be told, she wasn’t a huge fan of it either. The colour made her feel silly, and it was far sweeter than any coffee was supposed to be in her opinion, but having one herself was more than worth it to be able to witness Narcissa struggling through it.

“They’re happy drinks, aren’t they? Perfect if you need to loosen up a little.” She told her with a little bit of a challenge in her voice.

Narcissa nearly rolled her eyes.

“You seem to misunderstand the definition of the word happy, Hermione. What a tragedy.”

She just grinned at her. It proved rather difficult to really take her iciness seriously when she was — as subtly as one possibly could — sipping from a bright pink cup of coffee.

“Explain it to me then?” She asked, much to her own surprise. “Tell me about something happy. A memory, maybe?”

Her mind jumped to Narcissa’s earlier brief explanations of her friendship with Rodolphus Lestrange. Would she dare? 

Before she’d really come to a conclusion on whether she really wanted to hear anymore about him than necessary, her mouth went ahead and made the decision for her. 

“What about Lestrange?”

Even with Narcissa’s skill, she couldn’t stop her surprise from showing. her eyebrows rose suddenly and for a few moments Hermione felt she was studied intensely. Then it was silent for a while.

 

oOo

 

_ Riding the granians would always be better than flying a broomstick. _

_ The thought only crossed Narcissa’s mind briefly when she felt the familiar sensation of the magnificent horse taking off from the ground, the movement of his wings causing her hair to fly across her face. She laughed heartily at seeing that Lucius had the same problem next to her.  _

_ They were seventeen, spending a summer’s day at the Lestrange stables in the summer holidays after Lucius’ graduation and before hers and Rodolphus’ seventh year. Just the six of them: Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers, Antonin, Lucius, and her. _

_ The protective wards all across the immense estate the stables held made for a wondrous break from their strict society. No one cared Bella’s robes were torn and her cheek cut from a practice duel she’d had with her fiancé, none of them commented on Antonin’s not-so-subtle looks at Bella’s fiancé, and there had only been a few light-hearted teasing comments mentioning ‘a roll in the hay?’ on the bits of straw in Lucius’ and Narcissa’s hair.  _

_ Just them, the beautiful dark grey horses they rode — two of which Rodolphus and Rabastan had more or less raised themselves, as they had only reminded them seven times today — and the feeling of utter peace soaring through the sky like this. You’d nearly be forgiven for forgetting the war had already begun. _

_ She adored quidditch, but there was nothing like riding a well bred winged horse.  _

_ Lucius flew higher, perfectly well pretending it was an intentional move and not the horse’s own will, and Rodolphus took his place next to her. He looked at her with an enormous grin.  _

_ “If this doesn’t take your mind off things I give up, ma Caille.” _

_ She rolled her eyes at him, leaning forward when she urged her horse to go faster; Rodolphus followed her with ease. “There’s no need to show off your mediocre french with me, Lestrange.” She teased him. _

_ “Her family’s words are toujours pur so she thinks she knows french.” He retorted, shaking his head in disapproval. Narcissa laughed. _

_ It was a common subject of teasing with them. Though the Blacks often pretended otherwise there was not a drop of french blood running through their veins, unlike the Lestranges. Most everyone bought into the lie: with many estates in France, french words, and teaching every child born into the family to speak the language, not many dared to question the legitimacy of their claim. _

_ A silly claim, really. But what could they say? Being French was fashionable. _

_ Rodolphus never let her forget their accents were, in his own words, an abomination to the french language. He should know. _

_ “Race you to the lake?” _ _   
_ _ “Ready to lose?” _

 

oOo

 

“We used to go horse riding together.”

Hermione’s surprise was too easy to read, it made her chuckle. The young woman’s eyebrows shot up and she eyed her warily, clearly not finding it that plausible.

“Horse riding? No way.”

Narcissa smiled. She knew all too well what the general idea of her was: it was an image after all that she herself had crafted with care and once upon a time had not been so terribly far from the truth at all; she also knew that the man everyone knew Rodolphus Lestrange as was in no way comparable to the boy she’d known at seventeen.

Horse riding fit in with neither of those images.

“Winged horses. The Lestrange family ruled the business of breeding them.” How many times had she not rolled her eyes at Rodolphus’ and Rabastan’s bragging over their horses? Their family had owned the very best Granians and Pegasi in the wizarding world: their horses had been sold all over the world for prices most would never even dream of.

Of course, aside from the two foals the brothers had helped raising, no Lestrange had ever stepped foot in a stable. If they invited the rest of them over for a ride the servants had always prepared the horses for them; as was deemed appropriate. It had been their — though as the oldest son, mostly Rodolphus’ — empire nonetheless.

“During summer holidays, while we were still in school, we often went to their stables. The grounds of them were immense, we would fly the Granians all day. Settle somewhere far away, hidden behind trees and magic, away from anything else.”

Hermione’s eyes had turned almost affectionate while she watched her speak. She presumed she looked far less unapproachable than she preferred at the moment: discussing all too happy memories while pretending not to enjoy the atrocious drink in her hand. 

She didn't mind it as much as she knew she should.

“Away from anything else… I can't tell if you're talking about pureblood society or the first war.”

“That was a thin line.”

“Still a line.”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes a little. “The society itself, mostly. At the time being we were not so opposed to the war.”

It clearly took a lot of Hermione to not berate her for that comment, but she didn’t apologize. Not so opposed was quite the understatement and she had no doubt Hermione knew that as well as she did, but if she was in no mood to argue she wouldn’t push.

It pained Narcissa how excited they had been at the prospect of war. 

She could all too clearly remember how proud — how tremendously excited — the four boys had been when they showed her and Bella their marks for the first time. She felt the excitement even now, how she’d admired the dark tattoo and the meaning behind it. 

How blissfully ignorant — how utterly foolish they had been to think the Dark Lord would really give them the life they felt they deserved.

If she tried hard enough she could hear Bellatrix tell her all about the world they’d rule. A world in which their pureblood culture wasn’t pushed to the sides anymore, where they’d be treated like the royalty they’d been born to be. How perfect it had sounded to teenagers at the beginning of their career in the pureblood world.

If only they had been a little wiser at sixteen — how different things would have been now.

“Our society’s demands had the possibility to become terribly tiring at times. Sometimes with a group, but more often than not just the two or three of us, we would take the horses and forget it for a while.”

The horses and the three of them — Rodolphus and she herself, sometimes joined by either Rabastan or Antonin or Lucius — didn’t care for the facade of perfection. The scandal she’d caused within her family mattered not; they pretended not to see the others kissing people they were never supposed to be kissing; perfection was of no use if you lay in the grass and laughed until there were tears in your eyes. 

Hermione didn’t respond and now she glanced at the younger witch with a hint of worry in her eyes. “My apologies,” Narcissa said now, even though she’d told herself she wouldn’t apologize, “I should not have said that.”

Her apology was met with a nod and then she — clever thing that she was — said “We’ll talk later. Let us not ruin such marvelous coffee with talk of war.”

Narcissa chuckled politely and when Hermione laughed she chuckled again, a little less polite.

“You can hardly refer to this as coffee.” She muttered.

 

oOo 

 

Hermione leaned back in her seat, tilting her head back to close her eyes for a moment. Her drink stood abandoned on the table in front of her, forgotten as she was lost in thought. 

After she’d made Narcissa buy them Starbucks — something she didn’t regret in the slightest — she’d taken the rest of the afternoon to write a few letters home. One to her parents to let them know they shouldn’t expect her to visit this week; one each to Harry, Ron, and Luna with some not too detailed information of her whereabouts in Paris (for the time being she had decided not to include who was paying); and one to Kingsley to let him know she needed more time to think over everything.

Hermione wasn’t sure yet how she’d explain her arrangement with Narcissa to her friends. Not at all sure if she’d bother to tell them at all. As long as she kept it vague who’d been paying for her stay here, there was no reason after all.

It was so unlike anything she’d ever expected of herself; but maybe it was exactly that what made it so exciting. It was nothing like what people knew her as and while that frightened her a little it liberated her more than anything.

Hermione was starting to understand the appeal of starting over.

At home she was Gryffindor’s Golden Girl; brightest witch of her age; a smart and responsible and determined witch that went all in for what she believed in. She was all of those things, and proud of it too, but it was oddly relieving not to be any of it for a while.

She went all in for what she believed in, she loved putting in hours and hours of work for jobs she cared about and projects she deemed important and she was proud of her ability to do so. But when she was so unsure of what it was she wanted to care about — when she had no idea which project she should pour that energy into — she got stuck.

Each day she didn’t work as hard as she’d come to expect of herself she felt like she was disappointing not only herself but everyone around her. Rubbish, she knew, but not a feeling she could shake off so easily.

On the days she could barely muster up the energy to get herself out of bed that feeling became almost overwhelming.

In Paris there were no expectations. 

In the back of her mind she still felt the pressure of having to decide on what to do when she’d get home, but one look at Narcissa and it faded. She could act on whatever impulse had lead her to accept her offer and she’d thoroughly enjoyed it so far.

She’d never been so fond of the luxurious lifestyle Narcissa was so used to and she didn’t think that would change anytime soon, but with so much wealth came a certain freedom she wouldn’t mind getting accustomed to.

Hermione doubted she’d manage it for long; she did thrive on knowing she had certain responsibilities still and as liberating as it was to be free of them for the time being she knew for certain she’d come to miss them eventually. For now though, the thought of not having a care in the world aside from where Narcissa would take her next was a gift.

She opened her eyes and looked around the open space with a relaxed smile. The hotel had a rooftop pool with an adjacent bar that they were now occupying. It was late in the evening already and the darkness that had enveloped the city only added to its beauty. If she wasn’t here with someone she in no way planned to romantically pursue — as truly attractive as she was — Hermione would have described the city as nothing but utterly romantic.

The city of love indeed.

The bar gave them view over the better part of the city — bewitching in itself already but it was Narcissa that looked absolutely stunning. She was standing near the extravagant balustrade of the roof with her perfect posture in her even more perfect robes, a drink Hermione couldn't remember the name of but that seemed to glow in the dark held in her hand.

She was certain she'd never seen anyone as beautiful as Narcissa Black in that moment.

Neither of them said anything: either lost in their own thoughts or merely admiring the astonishing view over Paris from this place. It didn't compare to Narcissa's own beauty.

Their eyes met and Hermione swallowed but didn’t look away. Who could blame her for acting so impulsive earlier that week if it had been for someone who looked like this?

For the shortest of moments Hermione’s eyes darted to the older witch’s lips before they shot up to her eyes again, a blush creeping up her neck.  _ ‘How easy it’d be to make another impulsive, nearly reckless, decision’ _ , she thought.

The dark sky around them and the city lights below, the glowing and half empty drinks in their hands, not to mention the smirk gracing Narcissa's lips that she could only describe as daring her to go through with whatever she was thinking. It made her feel like she could do anything she wanted.

And right then, she only wanted one thing.

Hermione slowly got up from her seat and as if she knew exactly what was going on in her mind Narcissa turned to face her directly, eyes beaming with an anticipating look.

“You're so beautiful…” was all Hermione managed to say and then she stopped thinking.

She didn't think of how weird it would be to look at this witch ever again if she went through with this and it went wrong; not of the tension this would surely bring tomorrow; not of anything but how much she suddenly wanted this.

Hermione made her way over to the edge of the roof, still slowly and she was fully aware she didn't come close to the elegance Narcissa carried herself with, but it became clear the other witch didn't mind at all. Clear blue eyes looked her over in awe; for once blatantly revealing what could be going on in Narcissa’s mind. Want; a touch of guilt; and a desperate attempt to conceal either one. 

They didn’t speak — didn’t need to — when Hermione’s eyes sank to her lip and rested there, nor when Narcissa after a brief moment of hesitation put her hand to rest on her hip. The touch electrified her. 

Standing so close together she could feel Narcissa’s heart beating through her chest and the woman’s lips parted slightly when Hermione — so excruciatingly slowly one could easily be fooled it’d be her first kiss in the world — leaned in with sudden nervousness.

Then she was kissing her.

A little held back still, a little careful, but Narcissa drew her closer until she was pressed against the other witch's figure all the same.

Hermione could feel that even now — even as her own worries melted away with each second Narcissa's lips moved feverishly against her own — Narcissa didn't allow herself to really let go just as she could feel the rush of excitement buzzing within the two of them. 

The thought was discarded entirely the very moment it occurred to her when her head was tilted back and their kiss deepened. 

Narcissa's touch alone was enough to silence the dozens of other thoughts and worries that normally occupied her. 

Nothing else mattered; nothing else existed, for as long as she was kissing Narcissa Black like it was the last thing she'd ever do. In that too short of a moment Hermione was certain she wouldn't have cared if it was.

It only came back to her when they'd pulled away and she'd opened her eyes to look at Narcissa: a little out of breath; a broad smile; lipstick smudged across her face. Perfect nonetheless.

Even disheveled as she looked she was so obviously in control; so perfectly put together that when she'd taken a step back and regained her breath it was only the smudged lipstick that revealed anything had happened at all.

It stung slightly but much more than that it intrigued Hermione.

When their eyes met it was all too clear Narcissa hadn't been left unaffected regardless of how she tried to hide it — she couldn't help but grin broadly at that. 

She didn't know what she should say now but she didn't have to worry about it for long as Narcissa told her “We should talk in the morning, if you want to.” Before leaning in to peck her lips in such a way it felt it'd been like this for as long as they could remember and wishing her good night.

Hermione turned to lean on the balustrade with a shivering sigh and looked over the city — entirely unable to remove the grin from her face.

Narcissa didn't let go. It intrigued her and even more so it formed a challenge.

She'd find a way to make her.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

She hated what Hermione was doing to her.

Narcissa was coming to realize she had been naive to hope that as long as she did not think of it; the pain England had left her with would fade in time. If only she pretended enough that it had never happened; she could convince herself it to be true.

How terribly wrong she had been.

Hermione was not-so-slowly destroying the fantasy where ignorance meant bliss. The perfect world where was long as she played pretend as well as she did, it wouldn’t hurt.

Everything about the witch was a stark and painful reminder of everything she had tried to push out of her mind.

She was the breathing example of the prejudice that had ruled her life for nearly forty years; that had been a direct cause of the two wars that had burned everything she’d held dear to the ground.

A living reminder that the world back in England had not ceased to exist after she had left it behind — but had kept on going and improving without her and her family. A world that was still functioning, just not with them in it. 

Narcissa swallowed and turned to look at the photographs on her desk; eyes resting at Rodolphus and Delphi for just a moment before falling on the picture Hermione hadn’t seen in its full form when she’d been here before.

Lucius and Draco were there now, smiling their well known proud smirks in the Malfoy fashion in front of the manor. Draco was holding a new broom — the newest at the market at the time being — he’d gotten for his birthday that morning. 

He had turned fourteen that day. Summer holidays had just started and they had spent all morning opening gifts. A new broom, a new wand holder, the tickets for the quidditch world cup that summer.

Of course there had been more death eater activity already — they had not been blind to it no matter how much they wished they could be — but it had not seemed to matter that day. She and Lucius worried, yes, but they worried in silence. Draco had had no idea what was about to happen — none of them had to the full extent yet. 

Now the entirety of wizarding England had seemed to live on just fine for years while they had both been buried.

Narcissa felt herself tense and she tightened the already firm grip on her glass as a way to remain composed — for who she couldn’t tell, there was no one here. She had not cried for them in months, allowing herself to believe that as long as it didn’t show the grief was not so impossible to carry. She didn’t dare to start again now.

She nodded to herself as she put the glass down and closed her eyes. It would be easier to just worry about that forsaken kiss.

 

oOo

 

She couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.

Hermione had tried, she really had. She’d tried thinking about her friends in England, about what she’d do for a living when she returned, about everything she despised about Narcissa’s life and opinions and history. Nothing worked.

She couldn’t get the kiss out of her mind no matter how much effort she put into it. It didn’t help that Narcissa happened to be an extraordinary good kisser. 

If she closed her eyes Hermione could feel again Narcissa’s hands on her waist, the feeling of her hair between her fingers. She never wanted to stop picturing it and — as if it wasn’t enough of a problem as it was — she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she wanted more. So much more.

In her letters home she hadn’t mentioned Narcissa again except to Luna, not sure how to mention her without explaining why she was still with her — an explanation she wasn’t ready for yet in the slightest.

Instead she’d gone on and on about the different gardens and museums she’d visited, how good the trip was doing her, and most of all that she wasn’t sure yet when she would come home. 

She may not be ready to tell her friends about her arrangement with Narcissa, but even more so she wasn’t ready to let go of it. 

 

OoO

 

Breakfast was the same as always and that made it so much more awkward than she’d expected. Narcissa didn’t mention last night and neither did she. She didn’t want to risk exposing just how much she’d liked it — it was her that had suggested not to go there at all, after all.

Until she’d gathered her thoughts, Hermione figured it was better to not be the first to bring it up.

That did, however, mean she was stuck over-analyzing everything Narcissa did. 

Hermione could hardly stop herself from glancing at her lips or collarbone every few seconds and it had to have been noticed by now — knowing Narcissa there wasn’t a chance she hadn’t seen already. 

Unlike other times though, when the older witch hadn’t missed an opportunity to tease her a little, no comment was made. Hermione’s mind raced over what that could mean — not sure what she wanted it to mean. 

Was it her way of giving Hermione a chance to forget about the kiss? Pretend it never happened? Was she trying to give her space to sort out her thoughts — or had she decided she was no longer interested at all and just waiting for the right time to break it to her?

No, Narcissa was a lot of things but a coward wasn’t one of them, she was sure. If she was done, she would’ve told her by now.

That still didn’t rule out the possibility that she simply hadn’t enjoyed the kiss — she had left abruptly afterwards after all. Hermione hated the thought. 

She was so consumed in her own worries that she took a while to notice Narcissa was looking at her — waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t heard her asking.

“Oh. Oh, sorry. What did you say?”

As embarrassed as she was at having missed the question entirely, the way Narcissa covered her mouth to laugh and repeated it with a smile melted away all worries she’d had for a few moments.

“The wine tasting is not until late this afternoon, do you mind if we don’t leave until three o’clock? A little rest is just what I need, I think.”

“Yes, yes of course. No problem, I’ll come see you later then.”

 

oOo

 

Hermione ended up knocking at her door with an hour to spare and was surprised that the door opened magically when she touched it — not sure whether she’d earned Narcissa’s trust to come as she pleased or if she’d forgotten to lock it.

Forgetfulness seemed an unlikely trait of Narcissa Malfoy, so she felt honoured.

Narcissa had barely noticed her entrance at all, she realised when she closed the door behind her and walked towards the living quarters of her room. 

For a moment she feared she’d walked in when she wasn’t supposed to and would be send out immediately, but Narcissa was seated at the sofa, surrounded by magazines scattered across the sofa, table, and floor. 

Hermione had to stop herself from laughing when she saw they were quibblers. That was absolutely one of those things she’d never expected to see in her lifetime.

Every one of the quibblers was opened at the pages of an interview Luna had done — she didn’t have to ask why — and Narcissa was looking through them with a serious look on her face. 

To her own surprise the first question she wanted to ask was how on earth she’d so quickly gotten her hands on so many different quibblers. She doubted they were so popular in France.

 

oOo

 

“Does this mean you’re considering the interview?”

Narcissa swore there was surprise in Hermione’s voice and it made her smile a little. “What, Hermione? You do not think a Quibbler interview fits my reputation?”

She didn’t ask what exactly was left of her reputation — part of her was dreadfully curious about what had happened to her image in the years she’d been gone but a much stronger part was terrified — she knew all too well how horrible the Daily Prophet could be, after all. Some things were better left unspoken.

“I didn’t say anything!” Hermione defended herself and sat down on the floor in front of the sofa. “And besides, the Quibbler doesn’t have the reputation it once had anymore either. It’s more true to fact than the prophet most of the time. Just don’t read Luna’s section of theories and creatures. Her interviews are incredible.”

“It is more than a little admirable how defensive you are of your friends.” She told her, a sincere smile on her lips before she turned back to the Quibbler edition in her lap. Ginny Weasley on her bisexuality; she had not read the article itself in full — she could care less what the youngest Weasley went through — but only skimmed it for the questions asked. 

“Nothing but the truth. So are you? Considering it?”

Hermione leaned closer to her, but with her earlier intentions in mind Narcissa didn’t respond to her light touch. She sighed delicately. “I do not know.” A lie, she’d already made up her mind, but that didn’t stop her from doubting her decision already.

“Why?”

She took a few moments to gather her thoughts before answering. It was simple, really. “Because you did not know, before I told you.”

Narcissa saw the frown on her face before she could say anything in response and continued. “I am a daughter of one of the most powerful and well known old families in our world. I played a major role in the death of it’s bloodline, too. It was a scandal that did not blow over until I was married.” Her marriage. She winced. “Yet you did not know.”

Hermione had turned her head to look at her and she could see the realization dawning on her face. “You made sure I — anyone — didn’t. Doesn’t.”

“Not anyone. Your generation, witches and wizards not alive at the time. Though with everything that has happened since… I do doubt most people not following the pureblood world closely care to remember.”

One article — and that had been as extraordinary rude and as it had to be — the Prophet, Witch Weekly, and other tabloids each had published before her family had rushed to them with money.

A lot of money. Much more than they could have possible dreamed of making off of the stories they would otherwise have published. Hundreds of thousands of galleons total that ensured they were not allowed to publish anything on the matter unless she gave them personal permission. 

Cowardice, Sirius had called it in a particular nasty argument they had later. Cowardice to go through such lengths to make life in a society that would take years to love her again more bearable. Clever, Rodolphus had applauded her.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice herself starting to run her hand through Hermione’s hair, and when she did she didn’t care to stop doing so.

Hermione nodded slowly and laid her head down against her legs, shifting closer to her touch. “Bringing it up again… I can see why you’re hesitating.”

“Oh, not at all. I will do the interview, for Luna it is the very least I can do. I just need to… come to peace with the idea.”

Truth to be told, did she really have a choice when it came to Luna Lovegood? The poor girl had spend months locked in her own cellar. Even though she had been as much a prisoner, she could hardly refuse her something like this. She could live with setting aside her own pride and comfort for her request.

“Alright… ” Hermione began again, “so, what was it like, then? Maybe.. if you just talk about it, it’ll be easier to bring up everything during the interview?”

Narcissa half suspected the younger woman just wanted to know more about her — she couldn’t blame her for the interest — but she had to admit she made a fair point. She hadn’t spoken about her life in england at all since she’d left, let alone her childhood memories. Going over it one on one, without having to think about what she wanted the press to know even if that press consisted of Luna Lovegood alone, might be best.

“It was quite dreadful, really. In the beginning. In a pureblood family there is little of more importance than the firstborn heir. Whereas my aunt Walburga had two sons, both younger than me, my parents had Bella and Andromeda, and me.”

She and Sirius had grown up with it. Only a few months apart with the same responsibilities laid on their shoulders. Golden children of the Black family — raised to believe there was nothing in the world that didn’t or couldn’t belong to them. The brightest futures a child in their world could possibly have ahead of them.

How scandalously they had both destroyed those futures, one after the other.

“I was fifteen when I told my parents. The summer before fifth year, the same summer Andromeda eloped, a year before Sirius ran off. I’d never seen anyone as furious as my mother was then.”

Had she not been fully prepared to follow Andromeda’s path and be disowned? If Narcissa tried hard enough she could feel the relief still when she’d found out that wouldn’t happen; even if remaining a part of the family had been just as painful.

“And your father?”

Hermione asked it as if she’d known him — she reminded herself to ask about that later on. She smiled carefully.

“My father was angry. He was disappointed, desperate, but he loved me. He always loved us, even if he was furious with us he loved us above all else. I caused him great pain and greater embarrassment, but I never once doubted he loved me.”

That year, aside from her mother’s funeral, had been the only time in her life she could remember seeing her father cry. A pureblood wizard didn’t cry — much less in front of his family — but he had.

Hermione had changed her position to lay her head in her lap with closed eyes, and Narcissa smiled down at her. For all the painful reminders Hermione Granger had come with — the sense of comfort and ease she’d brought alongside it made up for almost anything. 

She talked on for a while, explaining how her name above all else had mattered so much when she’d returned to school. Her last name, that is. As long as her family appeared to support her, there was little the other purebloods could do. A Black was a Black, and no one messed with a Black.

Narcissa briefly mentioned private lessons with Minerva Mcgonagall, but despite Hermione’s clear interest didn’t expand on them. She never had forgotten the look of utter disappointment she’d received during Lucius’ trials after the first war. It hurt to think about how she’d let that witch down.

Eventually she talked about her engagement to Lucius and how it had been Rodolphus to insist they’d try. At that point she’d had enough, and brought the conversation to a quick end.

“The pureblood world was a hard one, impossible to survive without the right friends at your side. Thank Merlin I had them. It was the best decision I can recall making in my life, but I would not have lived through it without them.”

 

oOo

 

_ When she entered the dormitory she found Rodolphus on his back, sideways across his bed staring up at the ceiling. He appeared to be deep in thought and she smiled a relieved smile as she closed the door behind her and lay down next to him. That usually meant he wasn’t up for speaking — precisely what she was looking for. _

_ She was correct. Neither she nor Rodolphus said a word for a while, merely enjoying each other’s company in dead silence. How wonderful it was to have a friend understand the need to simply not speak for a short while. _

_ Like everything though, the silence was broken after some time. _

_ “I’m getting engaged in a few weeks, most likely.” Rodolphus said eventually, a laugh that came out more bitter than anything accompanying his words. He followed up with what had to be an attempt at humour she could only describe as failed. “So if you see Antonin poisoning my drink at dinner tonight, that’s why.” _

_ She didn’t laugh.  _

_ “You and Bella? Our families came to an agreement then? What happened to my mother’s insistence her eldest should marry someone with Black blood?” She asked, sincerely, and turned her face to look at him.  _

_ “You didn’t know yet?” _

_ Narcissa huffed and shook her head with a smile that read ‘just how naive can you be’. “My mother has not spoken to me since,” she paused, “since everything. My father does, but marriage… he doesn’t like to bring it up around me.” _

_ “Well, Black, dearest friend, I say this with all respect to you, but when you and Andromeda both walked out on your engagements — your family lost all right to be picky. They need a wedding, they need it to be a good one, and they need it soon rather than later.” _

_ Her eyes darkened considerably and Rodolphus sighed. “With all respect to you, I said, didn’t I? I’m on your side, always, you know that. But I won’t say I’m not glad you made marrying a Black a whole lot easier.” _

_ “You’re an arse.” _ _   
_ _ “You love me.” _

_ “Is that what Antonin will say before he poisons you?” _

_ “Shut up.” _

 

oOo

 

“You know, I think it’ll do you good to get to know more about muggle culture.”

Any suggestion that started off with those words had to be a disaster, Narcissa thought to herself. She didn’t speak her thoughts out loud yet, which allowed Hermione to finish her ridiculous idea. “Let’s go to a theme park. Disneyland, to be precise.”

She had lost her mind on this expensive wine, that much was obvious.

“A theme park. Crowded and loud, with muggles galore? Is the wine getting to you already? Absolutely not.” Narcissa said at once, not looking up from the menu for extra effect. Hermione huffed.

She’d heard about Disneyland, of course. It was impossible to live in Paris and not hear about Disneyland, that was perhaps the most frustrating thing about it. Muggle fairy tales that drew muggle families to horrific muggle contraptions that Narcissa was quite sure were designed to maim a person. Not a chance.

“Wasn’t the deal that you give me everything my heart desires? My heart has spoken and it wants you to see you ride the Pirates of the Caribbean ride in Disneyland.”

What pirates had to do with anything, Narcissa wasn’t sure. She ignored it. “If I recall correctly, kissing me was not a part of that deal.” 

She doubted she’d ever made a weaker argument, but was glad to see that in combination with a practiced raised eyebrow it made a blush creep up Hermione’s neck nonetheless.

To perhaps both their surprise, she had her answer ready. “Perhaps I’ll kiss you again if you take me to Disneyland.”

Narcissa chuckled, a little disappointment she hadn’t kept her surprise as hidden as she’d liked, but she had not expected a comment like that. 

“Pleasure in exchange for gifts? What was it again you said about expensive whores?”

There was no response to that except a shocked laugh as another round of wine was brought to their table. Narcissa sighed to herself as she picked up her glass, shaking her head in defeat. 

“First we go to my manor at the beach. A little relaxation away from the city will do you good. Then — ” what in Merlin’s name Hermione was doing to her she couldn’t begin to understand “perhaps then we can see about Disneyland.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for an actual M rated scene this chapter, can you believe?

Whatever expectations Hermione might’ve had of a beach manor of the Malfoy family, they were nothing compared to the reality of it. 

When Narcissa had referred to it as a manor on the smaller side, she’d naively assumed that’d mean something similar to a beach house she sometimes saw in movies. ‘On the smaller side’ might be accurate compared to a house as enormous as Malfoy Manor itself, but it was easily over two times the size of any ordinary beach house she could have imagined.

Narcissa — who no doubt had expected a reaction like this — chuckled kindly at her and took hold of her waist to guide her inside.

“Exceeding expectations, Hermione?” She asked with a teasing smile, and all she could do was nod in response. That was one way to put it.

“I will have Linsy and Tilly prepare the master bedroom, and — ” it still surprised her to see Narcissa be unsure about anything, “should I tell them to prepare a guest bedroom as well?”

Instead of answering immediately, Hermione stared at her. Not her best moment.

“Of course.” Narcissa’s assumption came quick. “My apologies, I will inform them to-”

“No!” Hermione surprised herself with the sudden urgency she felt to do this. “I mean — that’s not necessary. The master bedroom… Is fine.”

She was quite sure she would regret that decision later on, but right then it felt like little else was more important than not staying in a separate room as Narcissa. Merlin did she have a problem.

For a moment Narcissa looked at her with concern, almost as if she waited for her to change her mind, but then she nodded. “Of course. Shall I show you around?”

 

oOo

 

Even just showing Hermione around the main rooms of the manor took quite some time — she wouldn’t begin to bother to show her every room there was. If she was truly so interested she could always look around herself in the following week. 

Narcissa hadn’t set foot in this house in what had to be ten years by now. The last time had been before the war, when she’d spend a few days alone to read and let herself forget about the growing rumours of the Dark Lord’s possible return. 

It had worked, for a while.

After the war the place had reminded her too much of what had once been — and what would never be again — and she had refrained from visiting it at all.

This had been where she and Sirius had felt like such adults when they had been allowed to stay a week with no supervision at sixteen, when she’d been blissfully unaware her friend would follow the same path as Andromeda not so much later.

The manor where — once it had been officially given to her — she had taken NAME Zabini countless of times for various amount of times, hidden away from the rest of the world to do as they pleased. She’d even lent it out to Rodolphus on a few occasions and though she had no proof she was quite sure that’s why Sirius’ old leather jacket was still hidden away in the master bedroom. 

In her opinion there was little more beautiful than the french coast, if viewed from a private balcony with the right drink.

Lucius and she had spent countless holidays here and she had the most wonderful memories of the three of them spending hours and hours on the beach and in the indoor pool.

She didn’t know if Hermione noticed her tightened grip around her waist when she tried to push back those memories, but she was beginning not to care as much either. 

It had been Hermione — and her constant reminder of the war and everything she’d lost back in England — after all that had unknowingly convinced her to visit again.

As much as the knowledge that despite her losses everything in England had gone on just fine, and the realization that regardless of how hard she convinced herself, leaving England hadn’t solved her problems, hurt her — somehow Hermione’s presence also seemed to help. 

Narissa couldn’t understand why, but taking Hermione here made facing the place she’d loved so much in the past far more bearable than she could have dared to hope.

She lead Hermione to a balcony and stood still in front of the balustrade, leaning forward to look across the ocean it faced with a smile that was barely forced anymore. “Is it not perfect?”

 

oOo

 

“Mum, look!”

Draco’s voice echoed across the empty beach as he excitedly pointed at a flock of seagulls rising up from a distant cliff. “Peacocks!”

Narcissa laughed heartily and shook her head, kneeling down next to him so she was only a bit taller. “Don’t let your father hear you make that mistake, sweetest. Those are not peacocks, far from.”

He loved the peacocks back at Malfoy Manor, but being so young meant that his adoration for that specific bird made him mistake every other somewhat white bird for a peacock. She could see Lucius’ soul leave his body for a moment each time Draco called a dove or a seagull a peacock.

Narcissa herself hardly understood their love for peacocks itself — but she’d learned not to question Malfoy men and there odd fascinations.

“Peacocks!”

He was always stubborn. 

Narcissa sat down in the sand and shook her head again, petting the spot beside her to gesture for him to sit down as well. He looked between her and the flock of seagulls for a few moments and eventually gave in. 

Instead of the sand though, Draco sat down in her lap and buried his head in her shoulder with a pout. “I wanna see the peacocks, mummy!”

What could she — or anyone — do against a six year old’s wishes, after all?

“In a few days again, my sweet.” To her own surprise that satisfied him enough for the time being. Who knew Draco had in him to be so compliant?

He nodded into her shoulder and wrapped his tiny arms as tightly around her as he could manage and Narcissa hugged him back with a warm smile. He was six already, she thought, and still she couldn’t get used to the feeling of overwhelming love she had for this little boy. Every day again she was surprised by how all consuming it was, and she prayed it’d never end.

“I wanna be a peacock when I’m as old as dad, mum.” He told her with such sincerity she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that might be a difficult career path. Instead Narcissa smiled at him with encouragement and kissed his forehead.

“When you’re as old as dad, you can be anything you want to be.”

 

oOo

 

Hermione hadn’t thought it possible when she’d first arrived here, so in awe with how enormous the mansion looked from outside already, but with every new room she entered she was more shocked at what a horrific amount of galleons must have been poured into it throughout the years. 

The library she now entered was no different at all.

Narcissa had left to the beach already — if she could use the word left at all; it was practically the backyard after all — and Hermione would follow her soon but first she wanted to explore a little more. Against such lavish displays of wealth as she was usually, she couldn’t deny how interesting it was to see what old magic and magical artefacts — and the families it belonged to — could do with their houses.

Her fingers traced the back of many books that looked as if they were only kept together by magic — Hermione was quite sure that was exactly the truth. There were many titles she hadn’t even heard of before, and most that she had had only been in mentions in books she had read before.

Manuscripts going back thousands of years in runes; ancient books that radiated magic she could feel before she’d touched them at all; a few also that instantly gave her the feeling she ought not to touch them and for once she didn’t let her curiosity get the better of her. It was no secret both the Malfoy and Black families and dabbled in dark arts long before the wars had even happened. 

“Who is there?”

She gasped; a chill running down her back as she jumped away from the bookcase, instantly reaching for her wand in case whoever was talking to her was close enough. Hermione looked around, filled with fear all of a sudden in this library she didn’t know.

“Who’s asking?” She called out, her voice immediately betraying how scared she was now. There was a laugh; a low laugh that didn’t make her feel anymore at ease. 

The voice came from the same place as it had before this time. “Cygnus Black, who else?” there was a pause when Hermione was at a complete loss of words. “Is this my daughter?”

Hadn’t this manor belonged to the Malfoys? She was quite sure that’s what Narcissa had told her before, but if that were the case she couldn’t explain what a portrait of Lord Black would do here. If she recalled the family tree correctly, he must be Narcissa’s father, he’d died but she had no idea when. 

Or had he been the disowned uncle? Hermione shook her head to herself. Of course not, they’d never let a portrait of a disowned man hang around here, even if no one visited anymore.

“N-no sir. It’s not.”

If he was a portrait, at the very least he couldn’t hurt her. That was somewhat of a relief. Hermione began to walk further around the library, curious as to where the portrait was.

“Then who is in my daughter’s library?” Lord Black sounded frustrated with her now, but in the moments it took her to think to herself whether it was alright to use her own name and explain what she was doing here, he spoke again. This time with something she could almost describe as fear. “Did something happen to Narcissa?”

“Oh, no sir! Narcissa’s quite alright, she’s at the beach now.” She said immediately. If she’d be honest, Hermione was a little surprised at how much emotion he showed. It wasn’t much, really, not for anyone who’s not a Black anyway she assumed. Still, he hadn’t struck her the type to immediately fear for his children.

Narcissa hadn’t talked about him too much — it’d been mostly Druella who’d come up in her stories, and from what she’d heard about her that hadn’t been a pleasant woman — but if she combined it with Sirius’ stories about his own parents, Cygnus struck her as different.

“That’s good to hear.” At once he’d gone back to the more stoic and uptight man he’d sounded like before, and that combined well with the portrait she now finally saw before her. 

Cygnus Black was tall, wearing robes that were obviously from another time but more so obviously expensive. His hair was black and fell to his shoulders in waves that could easily be mistaken for straightness, even as a portrait he managed to look intimidating.

“Then who are you, girl?”

The moment he saw her, Hermione could feel he was disapproving of her already. She swallowed. She wasn’t wearing a witch’s robe, just her own summer dress, and she hadn’t yet bothered to do something with her hair that was sticking out everywhere now.

“Hermione Granger, sir. A— friend, of Narcissa.”

“A friend.” Another disapproving glare. “I have not heard of the name Granger before. Are you not a pureblood, or are you not an english pureblood? Both?”

With Narcissa it’d been easy to forget for a while what prejudice she’d been raised with. Because it reminded of the war they hadn’t brought it up yet, and it was easier to pretend it didn’t exist than it was to keep it in mind constantly. Narcissa had changed, anyway, she could pretend it hadn’t mattered before too. 

Her father was different.

“I’m not a pureblood, no. Muggleborn.”

“What have you done to Narcissa?”

Hermione didn’t even know what he was accusing her of, but she didn’t have time to think about it before he continued without waiting for her to answer.

“She doesn’t visit this manor for nearly a decade and the first time she does, she brings a mudblood over? What have you done to my daughter?”

Narcissa hadn’t been here since before the war? Hermione frowned at that — not to mention winced at the use of that word — and it only made Cygnus snort. “Don’t play dumb now, Hermione Granger. Answer me.”

“I— I haven’t done anything to her, really. She’s… ” she wasn’t sure why she didn’t just walk away, but she didn’t want to just yet. “I met her in Paris. She’s lived there for years, I didn’t know— I didn’t know she never visited this manor anymore. I can’t see why.”

His features tensed not in anger now but in concern. Hermione would’ve been touched if he hadn’t been so bigoted only moments earlier. She wasn’t sure what to do now, though.

She didn't even know when he had died, but it sounded like he wasn’t even aware there had been a second war and she had no idea if Narcissa wanted him to know everything. If she had her reasons for not visiting his portrait, she was sure she wouldn’t appreciate her telling her father everything anyway.

The war couldn’t harm, Hermione figured.

“There’s been a war,” she began, carefully.

“Yes, I’m aware. I fought in it, what else?” Lord Black huffed, then frowned. “You do seem awfully young to have lived through that. Can’t be much older than my grandson. You don’t say— ” 

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again Hermione assumed the pain was written all over face, because he sighed. “Another war.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is Narcissa? What happened to her?”

All pretentiousness and intimidation were gone as if they had melted off him the moment he began to worry about her again. He could be almost likeable this way. Almost.

Lord Black did seem genuinely concerned, but she didn’t want to betray Narcissa’s trust by revealing everything to him now. She could bend the truth a little, couldn’t she?

“I don’t know, exactly. We weren’t on the same side during it, I barely saw anything of her.”

That wasn’t a lie. Outside of their brief time at Malfoy Manor she had seen nothing of Narcissa during the war, and just like everyone else she also hadn’t seen her afterwards. There were rumours galore of what Malfoy Manor had been like during the war, and the little Narcissa had spoken about it only confirmed it hadn’t been pleasant — far from it in fact — but she had no clue what that meant.

“Right, mudblood. Not on our side. Seeing as you’re standing here, not dead, we lost again. Correct?” Hermione rolled her eyes at that and nodded. 

“Correct. Voldemort is dead for good; very much thanks to Narcissa.”

“You lie.”

“She did.”

It felt good to watch him be so surprised at this information, and Hermione smirked. “There was a prophecy. A boy who could defeat him. When Voldemort thought he’d killed him, he asked Narcissa to confirm his death. He was alive and well, but she lied for him, thus helping him to kill Voldemort once and for all. She’s quite a hero, your daughter.”

“You lie!”

Lord Black had gone back to looking angry now, and she sighed. She didn’t know what else to tell him, but she was glad she’d at least made sure he knew Narcissa was regarded a bit of a war hero thanks to Harry’s gratefulness towards her. Hermione doubted even she herself was aware of that, really.

“If she is a hero in England, why has she lived in France for years? That doesn’t make sense. She took Lucius and Draco with her and ran from fame? You don’t know her at all do you?”

She didn’t want to tell him about their deaths. They had barely mentioned it in conversation but it was painfully obvious how much it hurt Narcissa to think about — she couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like.

“She’s lived alone. Lucius was incarcerated after the war, as serves him right. Draco… stayed in England.” Hermione wasn’t sure how good a liar she was — not half as good as Narcissa, that’s for sure — but he bought it. Technically neither were lies. 

Before he could ask further and force her to lie after all, Hermione coughed and stepped back. “I should eh, go back to Narcissa. She must be waiting for me by now.”

She barely listened to his frustrated response when she hasted out of the library, unsure of what to tell Narcissa about it.

 

oOo

 

Narcissa opened her eyes when she heard Hermione approach the spot on the beach she’d chosen, gesturing to the empty lounger beside her.

Not before shamelessly letting her eyes wander over the woman’s body, more than a little enamoured by her. She’d stolen glances every now and then before — how anyone could resist it was beyond her — but she allowed her gaze to linger now.

Hermione’s curls were tight together in a bun, exposing the birthmark in her neck, and her light-grey; close fitting bathing suit contrasted beautifully against her dark skin.

Muggle bathing suits made a woman look gorgeous, she would give them that. 

“Do stop me at any time if I’m making you uncomfortable.” Narcissa pretended she didn’t realize that was the first thing she’d said to Hermione since she’d seen her, it wouldn’t do to acknowledge just how spectacularly she was becoming enthralled with the younger witch.

She hadn’t even truly noticed it yet before they’d shared a bed last night — Narcissa was choosing to have a very selective memory of a kiss she didn’t mention anymore — but even if she had now there was not a chance she’d admit to herself or anyone just yet.

Hermione went to sleep curled up in herself, but she had ended up sprawled across her own and part of Narcissa’s side of the bed not long after she’d drifted off. Instead of annoyed — as she’d more or less assumed she’d be if something like that happened — Narcissa had been enamoured at the sight.

She was quite certain Hermione was having a similar internal conflict about it all, she hadn’t been difficult to read at all, but Narcissa didn’t trust herself to make assumptions about it.  She wouldn’t act unless — 

“You’re not.”

Cheeky thing that she was, Hermione ripped Narcissa from her thoughts and grinned at her when she lay down on her side in the chair. Narcissa could have sworn she purposefully pushed her breasts forward a little. The thought alone was nearly enough to drive her mad.

She closed her eyes again.

Thinking about it, Hermione was certainly driving her mad. Bit by bit. She was usually so strict with herself when it came to her partners here in France — she’d most certainly had never taken any of them to this manor — but with Hermione it seemed useless more than anything to do so.

Narcissa was in the process of breaking every rule she had for this witch and what frightened her most about it was that she didn’t even _care_ right now.

She didn’t _care_ that the entire reason she was here was to avoid England when it came to Hermione. She didn’t care that with everyone else when she had even became close to being as comfortable as she was with Hermione she’d put an end to it within days — and the thought of ending it with Hermione now was almost more frightening than it was to let it go on.

It scared Narcissa — but not enough.

_Why didn’t it scare her enough?_

When she made herself open her eyes again in an attempt to stop thinking about her slow deterioration into recklessness — for that was the only way Narcissa could describe herself for being with Hermione still: reckless — Hermione was looking at her.

Not just any part of her.

“Eyes up here, darling.” Narcissa smirked at her, more so when she saw the dark blush creeping up on Hermione.

She wouldn’t make assumptions.

_But was this really an assumption based on nothing?_

“You had them closed.” The younger witch muttered. “Are you alright? You seemed tense.”

Whether it was genuine concern or a weak attempt at changing the subject, Narcissa couldn’t care less. She wasn’t about to voice these thoughts.

“Perfect. What took you so long?”

Now it was Hermione who seemed oddly tense. “I visited the library.”

That explained.

Though Narcissa certainly remembered her late father with fondness — and that an understatement: she’d loved the man dearly — there was no denying Cygnus Black was an intimidating wizard. Even as a portrait, and especially when meeting him for the first time.

She hadn’t been to visit his portrait yet.

Visiting would mean explaining about what had happened, who she’d lost. It would mean lying to him about just how far his favourite daughter had fallen from grace — the grace he’d been so awfully proud of. 

Narcissa’s body tensed up as well when she reminded herself it was far too likely Hermione had told him all about it already — and given that she hadn’t told her not to, how could she really blame her for that? 

“Ah. What did you speak to my father about?”

Hermione shrugged and her smile was filled with understanding when she answered, putting Narcissa at ease immediately. “He knows there was a war, and he knows that I’m your friend. Nothing else.”

She could’ve kissed her right there and then.

If she hadn’t just told herself she wouldn’t make assumptions.

 

oOo

 

“So tell me, did you spend all your holidays here? I can’t even imagine...”

Narcissa chuckled at her question and shook her head, shifting to lay on her side so she could look at Hermione properly. Hermione huffed good naturedly. 

“Of course not. This is my own place, we only visited it together a handful of times. Hence why I chose this for one of my father’s portraits.”

At the mention of Cygnus Black, Hermione blushed again. She wasn’t yet over that trainwreck of a conversation. “That’s why it’s technically under the Malfoy name? It’s always been yours?”

She couldn’t imagine having a manor at all, let alone a personal one for holidays you took alone. As beautiful as it was here, she couldn’t help but imagine it was a bit lonely too. What Narcissa had said earlier during her stay came back to mind. ‘Places like this are not made to live in by yourself.’

Surely the peace and quiet would be nice occasionally, but she doubted it could be experienced as anything but lonely after a few days. 

Narcissa confirmed her question. “Given to me by my uncle Alphard for my seventeenth birthday, it used to be his. Before it was officially mine I spend ages here too.”

“Alone?” She couldn’t stop herself.

She swore Narcissa’s eyes lit up with mischief when she answered. “Rarely.”

Hermione blushed again at the implication, then let herself focus on Narcissa’s family again. If she recalled correctly, Alphard Black had been the brother of both Sirius’ and Narcissa’s and Andromeda’s parents. She swore he’d been burned off the tree too, though.

Before she could ask, Narcissa had asked her a question of her own. ”What about you? Where do you usually spend your holidays?”

“We used to go camping.”

She hadn’t gone camping in years — the war had pretty much ruined that for her. Hermione hadn’t taken that much holidays either. Minister Shacklebolt really had had to push to get her to take this one at all. 

“We? Your family, you mean?” Narcissa spoke kindly, with genuine interest to what she had to say, and she smiled because of it.

“Yes.”

Still camping with her parents was one of her favourite childhood memories. They would go anywhere in England with a large tent and enough marshmallows to drown a person and spend a few days in the middle of nowhere. 

“We would drive somewhere in England, a forest usually but sometimes we would go to campings. Build a campfire to roast marshmallows, and my father would sing.”

Her father had never been able to sing, and she and mum had never let him forget that. When he sang too wildly off key the two of them would throw a twig or some leaves — one time even a precious marshmallow when she was in a hurry — his way until he shut up. 

Hermione could tell Narcissa didn’t understand what was so nice about it, but she didn’t care. 

“Not everyone needs such excessive luxury in order to feel happy, you know.”

“And here I thought this was ordinary.”

They laughed. 

“No, really. Camping is a lovely way to spend a holiday. Me and my mum would read countless of books, and my dad knew all about the different plants and what mushrooms you could and couldn’t eat. Don’t write it off too quickly.”

One time she and her dad had spend an entire afternoon standing in a river trying to catch fish because he’d insisted he knew how. They hadn’t caught anything — though she’d come close once or twice — and looking back that might’ve been a good thing because she had her doubts he’d actually known how to prepare a self caught fish.

“And you were even unable to use magic… Why would anyone willingly put themselves through that?” Narcissa was still looking at her in disbelief. “Unbelievable.”

“Just wait until I tell you about the lack of public bathrooms in the forest.”

The look on Narcissa’s face would forever be branded into her mind.

 

oOo

 

It had nothing to do with wanting to look attractive for Hermione. Nothing at all.

She didn’t even know if the witch would come at all, for all she knew she’d spend the next hour exploring the rest of the manor. It would be foolish of Narcissa to take her into account when it came to her appearance in private.

She was not foolish.

She certainly did not hope for Hermione to take her up on the offer she’d made her jokingly. It had been just that, a little teasing. Nothing more.

They’d made clear those boundaries wouldn’t be crossed at the beginning, hadn’t they?

This was not for Hermione.

Narcissa was standing in front of the mirror in the master bedroom while she was letting a bath fill in the bathroom attached to it, wearing an open silk bathrobe while carefully examining herself. 

Her scars, to be exact.

She looked well, she did. She did not have to pretend in order to be vain. Narcissa knew how beautiful she was, she had little reason to doubt it. 

Except for those forsaken scars.

The thin cursed one in her neck that was starting to hurt again — she shouldn’t forget to apply the potion again tonight — was not so awful to look at, but she kept it hidden most of the time anyway. With perfection as her aspiration, even the slightest flaw felt like a terrible failure.

The rest of her body was a different story. Scars of which some she’d kept hidden even from Lucius for the time it was still relevant, let alone the string of lovers she’d acquired in france. 

The ones on her stomach — aside from being a now painful reminder of Draco’s birth — made her feel nothing but old and imperfect. They came with stretchmarks and she couldn’t remember a time where she’d been truly comfortable with them at all. Lucius had made a thousand and one attempts to convince her otherwise, and it had worked for a while and for a bit, but never completely.

Narcissa reached for her wand and hid them under a glamour charm, smiling at her reflection when they disappeared.

Next she looked at the few cuts on her hips and the single long scar on her thigh, already knowing they’d follow the same path before she’d officially declared her mind made up. They weren’t cursed and had therefore faded more but they weren’t thin and they certainly weren’t made by the careful hands of a healer.

Alongside a scar on her shoulder that she couldn’t see they were lasting reminders of her family home infested with death eaters.

She hated them.

With a flick of her wand they too were gone and she eyed the line in her neck a second time.

Who was she kidding?

Narcissa looked herself over in the mirror again before she nodded contently.

Flawless.

 

oOo

 

She wanted to — or she insisted she wanted to — but Hermione couldn’t possibly bring herself to tear her eyes away from Narcissa. 

On any occasion she was beautiful; Narcissa possessed that rare beauty that always seemed to radiate through, never letting you forget just how alluring she was. But this was different.

Narcissa was naked, for one. Bathing, her head tilted back on a pillow resting against the edge of the bathtub. She was just as enticing as always, but it felt her beauty was much more undeniable — much more inviting — if it was nude. 

“You are more than welcome to stop gawking at me and join me, dear.”

Hermione swallowed. Had it really been so obvious she wanted to do just that?

Slowly, her hands moved up to undo her robes’ buttons; it’d been a while since she’d undressed in front of someone else but even under Narcissa’s stare she didn’t feel uncomfortable for a moment.

Hermione felt her excitement rising when she let her robes slip off her shoulders, allowing them to fall to the ground, pooling around her feet before she stepped out of them and looked back up at Narcissa. 

Narcissa’s enchanting blue eyes hadn’t left Hermione’s body for a second. Hermione smirked and undid the charm holding up her hair and shook her head so her curls fell over her collarbones, just barely reaching to her breasts. She made sure to look  Narcissa in the eyes when she next went to undo her bra, holding her gaze intently until she was fully nude.

For a moment, the thought slipped through her mind that if someone had told her she’d be here a month ago she would have told them they had lost their mind; but in this instant, nothing felt more natural and more comfortable than to be preparing to join Narcissa Malfoy in a bath.

“Have I told you recently just how beautiful you are?”

Narcissa’s voice was just above a whisper and words couldn’t describe how thrilling it felt to hear how in awe she was. Hermione couldn’t stop her smirk from shifting into a flattered — nearly giddy — smile.When she walked towards the bathtub, Hermione allowed her eyes to look — truly look — at Narcissa’s figure.

On any given day, she radiated confidence — arrogance even. Now Narcissa looked confident all the same, but looking closer, there was a touch of self consciousness in there, as if she was all too aware that Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from her.

But how could Hermione possibly bring herself to do that when the witch in front of her was more beautiful than Aphrodite herself?

“As if anyone could compare to you. Merlin’s beard, you are gorgeous.” She breathed out the words, barely even caring how silly she must sound. Narcissa didn’t seem to mind.

With her legs trembling a little — whether from nerves or the cold beginning to creep up on her, she couldn’t tell — Hermione took hold of the edge of the tub and stepped into the water.

She sank down until she was sitting, feeling her heart beating faster the more aware she became of Narcissa’s body. The blonde’s legs on either side of Hermione, one hand that seemed about to take hold of her before Narcissa let it rest on her own knee — she appreciated the concern.

_ I’m taking a bath with Narcissa Malfoy. _

It felt so right.

Hermione let out a nervous breath when she leaned back against her partner’s chest. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back to rest in the crane of Narcissa's neck. 

“Are you alright, Hermione?” 

It sent a shiver down her spine to hear Narcissa's voice from this close, whispering in her ear as she leaned against her. She nodded in silence, sure she wouldn't be able to bring out a word if she tried. 

_ Alright? _ She'd never been better.

Hermione's lips parted when she felt a soft kiss being pressed against her shoulder, then another and one more until Narcissa allowed her lips to rest in her neck. Involuntarily, Hermione tilted her head to accommodate her; giggling when she felt Narcissa's knowing smirk. 

Each of Narcissa's movements seemed torturously slow to Hermione: it felt as if it took ages for her hands to slide across her waist and pull her closer; even longer for one of her hands to cup Hermione's breast — making her gasp.She loved every long second of it. 

Her heart was racing; it felt as though she would burn up from excitement any moment now.

Narcissa kissed her neck, suckled for a few moments and then skillfully tilted Hermione’s head to kiss her lips.

If that slow, deep kiss that made her feel like the only person in the world wasn’t enough to drown any other thought out of her mind — she couldn’t imagine when the last time that had happened had been — the hand that Narcissa wasn’t using to hold her neck and was now teasingly inching down her stomach did the trick.

“Tell me if I need to stop.”

“I will.” Hermione assured her, quite sure she wouldn’t have to.

Narcissa’s fingers traced along her pubic area and then moved to caress her inner thighs, quite rudely avoiding her most sensitive parts all together. One of her nails scratched her skin gently and it tickled in all the right ways, making Hermione moan softly.

Narcissa’s fingers crept up her thigh, slowly drawing a line across her lips and entrance until she teasingly flicked her clit just as she bit down on her neck.

Hermione gasped.

Narcissa kissed the same spot in her neck and began to draw small — and agonizingly slow — circles across her clit, drawing soft moans from Hermione’s mouth.

Hermione’s toes curled into themselves and she drew herself closer against Narcissa’s form, helplessly holding onto the edge of the bath with one hand and Narcissa’s thigh with the other.

_ Never stop _ , she prayed silently.

Narcissa did no such thing.

The hand that had previously been caressing her breasts had now slid down to replace the fingers working her clit, and before she knew what Narcissa was planning next, she’d entered her with two fingers and nothing mattered anymore.

Hermione lost all sense of time in the sensation that was Narcissa’s hands and mouth seemingly everywhere at the same time. Hermione barely even registered her lover’s hand moving again until her own hand was carefully guided up to her breasts; she happily obliged the silent command.

Narcissa’s lips were constantly shifting from her neck to her ear to her shoulder, changing between kisses and bites in split seconds that made her mad, working in combination with the fingers that were back inside her in an unfamiliar and exciting rhythm.

It was as if Narcissa knew precisely what Hermione wanted and when she wanted it.

Hermione’s moans only grew louder and more frequently as the heat in her stomach built faster than she’d anticipated, Narcissa’s movements and the thought of it being  _ Narcissa Malfoy _ doing this to her at all driving her mad until she could do little more than give in completely.

When hermione came undone it was only Narcissa’s arms catching her from sinking under the water, and she never wanted to feel anything else other than the feeling of Narcissa trailing kisses across her skin during her orgasm.

This had to be the definition of heaven.

  


oOo

 

She knew it wasn’t true, but Hermione felt like she’d never known peace like this.

They were laying on top of the blankets on Narcissa’s bed, her head resting on Narcissa’s exposed chest, just barely covered herself in the silk robes she’d borrowed from her for the time being.

Narcissa was holding her hand in one of her own and using the other to draw lazy circles on her waist — it was a comforting thought even someone like Narcissa made such mindless movements subconsciously.

She felt she was beginning to overuse the word heavenly to describe anything to do with Narcissa.

Of course, that meant she had to go and ruin the blissful mood by shifting positions and noticing an open letter on the bedside table. Addressed to Narcissa — as if there was someone else it could be for — and send by Rodolphus Lestrange. 

“I thought you only contacted him once a year.”

She’d said it before she could stop herself and she wished she hadn’t immediately. Narcissa’s finger movements stopped as she looked at the letter and back down to Hermione. She nodded. “I do.”

Hermione frowned slightly and it would’ve been so easy to leave it at that but she had to know. Her curiosity often couldn’t be stopped — as much as she wished otherwise. “But then—”

Narcissa sighed. “He writes more often, I answer once, on special occasions twice a year.”

“He doesn’t mind?”

The only answer was a shake of her head, and Hermione could feel she’d crossed the line already. She nodded and squeezed Narcissa’s hand as a way to let her know she’d stop.

They were silent for a while and to her relief Narcissa picked up the circles on her waist again, as if nothing had happened. 

Hermione closed her eyes, nudged closer against her warm body and sighed peacefully. She could fall asleep right here and now, if asked she was certain she could even be persuaded to never leave this manor again if it meant spending more time like this with Narcissa.

To her own surprise she realised Narcissa was about to elaborate before she actually said anything, feeling her body tense up beneath her. She hated how talking about this affected her — next time she’d try harder to keep her mouth shut.

“He doesn’t mind. Rodolphus.. he understands it’s difficult.”

Hermione wanted to know more, so much more, about the whole situation — about anything in Narcissa’s life really. She turned her head to look up at Narcissa’s face with a gentle smile, squeezing her hand again in encouragement, and she just hoped it wouldn’t be taken as force to get her to speak.

She wanted to know more, but only if she told her willingly.

Narcissa closed her eyes now, but squeezed her hand back and nodded. 

“You asked before why I didn’t wish to contact them more often. Certainly Delphini.”

Silence. Hermione didn’t push.

“I love her. Dearly. As do I love Rodolphus. But it hurts to think of them too often.”

Narcissa took a deep breath.

“After the war… The thought of being involved in her life, as an aunt and mother figure — ” Hermione thought she was beginning to see where this was going and she already felt sorry for the other witch. “ — it feels as if I’d betray them.”

Them obviously meaning Lucius and Draco this time, Hermione thought. Not sure what to say to make it easier she laid her other arm around Narcissa’s body in a loose embrace and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Rodolphus makes an effort to update me. He understands I don’t respond often, he always has.”  


End file.
